by Megan Chance
She was in a room strange to me, but not to her. She knew it well. It wasn’t the boardinghouse room, but a parlor, lavishly appointed, cluttered with bric-a-brac and gilded mirrors, paintings along every square inch of wall above the wainscoting, a huge Chinese vase with peacock feathers in the corner.
The heavy rust-colored drapes were drawn, and the room was dim, the gaslight off, the only light coming from the candles standing in the middle of a large round table. They flickered in the collective breaths of those gathered around it, jerking madly when someone—Michel—coughed, the light falling across their faces in an exchange of yellow and shadow, making them all look weird and fantastical. There was Michel, and Adele next to him, and then, alternating, three other men, three matronly women.
“Oh, spirits, please send one of you to guide us. Speak with us, spirit. Hear our call.” It was Adele who spoke. I felt her confidence, her sheer exaltation at her power. Her voice rose until it seemed to fill the room. “Spirits, has one of you come to talk with us?”
There was a rap. I felt her thrill at it.
“Are you there, spirit?”
RAP RAP RAP.
“Who has come to speak with us tonight?”
RAP RAP RAP RAP RAP.
“It wants the alphabet.” One of the women, resplendent in frills and heavy gold chains that rose and fell upon her ample bosom with every breath, spoke in a rush.
Someone else—a man—called out, “A, B, C, D—”
RAP.
“D!”
“A—”
RAP.
“A, B, C, D… ” It went on, spelling out slowly and inexorably.
“Daniel,” said the woman in the gold chains. “Dear Lord. Is this Daniel come to speak with us?”
Adele was confused. Daniel? Who was Daniel? She closed her eyes, trying to hear his voice, to see him as she’d seen others before. Daniel? She had not been expecting that name, but another. Hadn’t Michel told her the name was Richard? Yes, Richard. A beloved uncle who’d died of consumption. Who was Daniel? Why had Michel rapped to that name?
RAP RAP RAP.
“Yes.” The gold-chained woman’s voice was breathless. “Oh, it is Daniel!” “Ask him what happened,” urged one of the men. “Everyone’s wondered. Where was he?” Nervously, Adele squeezed Michel’s hand. “Can you tell us what happened to you, spirit?” she asked, and then she tried to listen for the voice. It didn’t come. How could that be? Her mind was empty. She felt cold sweat in her armpits, trickling between her breasts.
“Where were you, my love?” whispered the gold-chained woman. “Please tell us what happened. I have wondered so.”
Nothing.
“What’s he saying?” another of the men asked. “Is he answering? Adele, what’s he say? Did he die as they told us he did?”
Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. “Yes. He says he died—”
“On the ship or in the raft after?”
“Ssshhh,” one of the men hushed. “Remember, we’re supposed to test the spirit first.”
Adele swallowed. “On the ship,” she said, taking a chance, hoping it was true, because no voice came to her, nothing. She didn’t even know who this Daniel was. She slitted her eyes open, looking sideways at Michel, who said nothing, did nothing. She squeezed his hand again, asking for his help.
“On the ship?” the gold-chained woman asked, clearly incredulous. “But that’s not what they told us!”
“Perhaps it’s not really Daniel, Sally. We’re to test the spirit first. Ask it something else.”
The woman called Sally nodded. “Did you feel pain, my love?”
“We’ve no way of knowing that for certain,” another woman said. “Sally, we need a test. Here, I’ll do it. What was your job on earth, spirit?”
I felt Adele’s panic. Her fingers dug into Michel’s hand.
“What was your job, Daniel?”
Nothing. How could there be nothing? Where was the spirit? Why couldn’t she hear him?
“Why isn’t he answering?” One of the men turned to Michel. “What’s wrong with her?”
They were waiting; she felt them all waiting. Why didn’t Michel say something? Why didn’t he help her?
“Is the spirit still here? Daniel, are you still here?” Sally asked plaintively.
She was failing. Failing, just as he’d said she would—
“I’m here.” It was Michel’s voice, but deeper, not completely his own. Adele’s relief was so dizzying she barely heard it. The others at the table turned to him with alacrity.
“Daniel?”
“I was a sailor,” Michel said. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. “The ship broke apart. There was screaming, Mother—it was terrible. But I made it to the raft. I thought I would be saved. But no one came. Not for days and days.”
Sally’s voice caught on a sob.
Michel said, “I’m at peace now, Mother, and you should be too. The end was kind, and I was glad for it. And now I live in such love.”
Adele stared at him. She had forgotten how good he was. In these last months, he had been only a man, her lover. He had been too busy training her, because he’d said people trusted a woman more than they did a man, and this aspect of him had disappeared.
“Oh, my dear love,” Sally said. “To think of you suffering—”
“The suffering was nothing. The peace and love I feel now, that is what you should know, Mother. When your time comes to join me, you will understand.”
Sally dissolved into quiet sobs. There was silence but for the sound. Then Adele felt Michel stir beside her. He opened his eyes, blinking, and then he said, in his own voice, “The spirit is gone.”
The circle broke apart. The lights were turned up. They began to mill about, each of them buoyed by an eerie excitement, an energy born of contact with the spirits. Adele rose, anxious for their accolades, but no one turned to her. Instead, they flocked to Michel.
“How talented you are, my boy! Why did we never see it before now?”
“You spoke in his voice. My dear son’s voice!” Sally clung to his arm, burying her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped his free arm about her and held her close, comforting her with a quiet smile.
“Madame, it wasn’t me. The spirits find affinity where they will.”
“Yes, it makes sense that he would find his way to you. You’re so like him, really, Mr. Jourdain. So much like him.”
I stood in the background, watching through Adele’s eyes. I felt her growing envy, along with her anger. Michel glanced at her over the crowd surrounding him, and suddenly she knew: he had done this on purpose. He had told her about Richard, but not about Daniel. He had meant for her to fail.
“Could we speak with him again?” Sally asked, her eyes bright with tears and a fierce longing. “Can you call him for me?”
Michel said, “It would be difficult tonight.” He began to cough. That horrible, consumptive cough he’d perfected, and Sally clung to his arm, watching him in dismay. When he reached for his handkerchief, saying, “Pardon, Madame,” she cried, “How ill you are!”
“It’s nothing,” he said into the handkerchief. “A hazard of boardinghouses, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. I didn’t think. How draining it must be for one of your constitution.” She turned to the maid, who was bringing tea. “Bridget, prepare a room for Mr. Jourdain. The red one.”
“Madame—”
“You must stay with me,” she said. “I insist. You’ll be my guest. Please, Mr. Jourdain, nothing would give me more pleasure.”
Adele stepped forward. “If you please, Mrs. Bayley, we’ve our own rooms—”
Michel’s glare cut her off. “But we’d be pleased to accept your offer, Madame. You’re most kind.”
“You must call me Sally,” the woman said. “And you must stay as long as you like.”
Then, it was later, and Adele lay in a bed canopied with red velvet and golden fringe, watching Michel as he stood at the w
indow.
“You didn’t tell me about Daniel,” she accused.
“Of course I did. You weren’t listening, chère.”
“You meant to do this. You meant to make me look like a fool.”
“You don’t need my help for that.”
She was enraged. She clutched the bedcovers to control her temper. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.”
“Home? Where is that? You mean your little cottage?” His voice was mocking, needling. Adele’s anger fled in cold fear.
“I meant the boardinghouse. Our rooms—”
“I’m not going back there,” he said.
“You can’t mean for us to stay here.”
“Non. Not us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m sending you back, chère. It was entertaining for a while, eh? But now I think your husband’s been without you long enough. No doubt he misses your tempers and your silliness.”
“You can’t mean this, Michel.” She pushed back the covers, running to him, clinging to him. He didn’t even turn. He was hard as stone. “Please, dear heart, you can’t. You need me!”
“Not anymore,” he said, and his voice was soft and deadly.
THE SCENT SWEPT away like clouds before a wind, and once again Adele was in the dark alleys of the riverside. Once again she was running, and I felt her fear, her gasp of breath as if it were mine. And then he was there, grabbing her arm, pulling her back, and her cry was cut off so abruptly it was as if it had never been.
The vision dissolved, and I was pulled into myself again. I woke drained and nearly numb with cold. My legs were clumsy as I rose; I could no longer feel my fingers. I had no idea how long I’d been out here. The remnants of Adele still hovered about me, shadows I tried to fight through as I made my way into the house. It was time to discover what Adele meant for me to find.
26
__
WHAT SHE LEFT BEHIND
I took off my cloak and gloves and went upstairs. The door to Michel’s bedroom was closed; as I passed, I stopped, trying the handle as quietly as I could. It was locked. Of course, it would be now that he knew what I’d found.
I heard a sound from the library, a movement. I went down the hall, stepping between the open double doors and into the green-and-gold-papered library, with its walls of polished maple shelves and leather-bound books and huge window that overlooked the backyard.
He was before the window, staring outside. The light haloed his hair and limned him. He could almost have been an angel standing there, except that I knew he was not.
I’d thought he hadn’t heard me, but he turned. He was angry.
“How’s Dorothy?” I asked him.
“Sleeping the sleep of the blessed.” His voice was sharp. “And your assignation with Rampling?”
Uncomfortably, I remembered the flash of light I’d seen through the window. “It went well enough. He came to discuss my case.”
“Did he? Most clients don’t go running into their lawyer’s arms. But perhaps I’m wrong. I’ve so little experience with it, you see.”
“Benjamin and I are good friends. You know that.”
“Oui. The inevitable husband.” He turned again to the window. His mood was strange. Not just angry, I realized, but something else. I took a risk and feigned ignorance. “Are you angry with me?”
He laughed—it was short and bitter. Then he made a sound of frustration, bringing his hands together, as if he were strangling an invisible neck. “Jésus, what you’ve done to me…”
I took an involuntary step back. “I’ve done nothing. You’ve brought it all on yourself.”
He snorted. “D’you love him?”
“You’re jealous!”
“I find I’ve a possessive soul after all.” His smile was wry. “What am I to think? You lie to me. You leave my bed to run into his arms.”
I had not expected this, but I knew well enough to take advantage of it.
“Suppose you tell me why you would lie to me about the jewel Dorothy gave you. Or what it was that brought Rampling today running to you like a slave?”
I touched his arm, and when he stiffened, I stroked up his sleeve to his shoulder. I felt his tension radiate into my fingertips. “I didn’t tell you about the jewel because I was afraid you’d be angry. It’s worth a great deal, Dorothy said, and I felt guilty. After all, if the adoption goes through, it would’ve been yours. And I need it so very much.”
“Very pretty, chère. And Rampling?”
“After the circle last night, Benjamin and I argued. I wanted to reassure him.”
“About what?”
“That we were still friends.” I eased my fingers between the buttons on his vest. “And yes, that I still regard him as possibly more than that.”
“Do you really think he’ll marry you? Even if you aren’t found guilty, you’ll be an accused murderess. Do you think your upper ten’ll forget it? Do you think he’ll sacrifice everything he’s gained to keep you?”
My fingers stilled on the buttons. “He’s already taken on the upper ten for me. He’s taken on the Athertons.”
“That isn’t the same as marrying you.” He made a sound of disbelief. “Why don’t you see that you don’t need him? You could make them all dance to your tune, if you wanted. Look at how well you managed Dorothy! The game belongs to you, Evie. Why the hell do you want Rampling? He doesn’t understand you.”
I struggled to steady my breath, to remember my task. “You’re at Dorothy’s beck and call. Not only must I share you with her, but your former lover keeps her constant presence in my head. Do you think I’ve no cause to be jealous myself?”
“Dorothy’s a task, you know that. And as for Adele, there’s no reason for jealousy.”
“She says differently.”
“We parted badly. She would lie to you.”
“You claim to understand people so well.” I slipped one button of his vest loose, and then another. “But how well can you understand a woman, truly? You said it yourself. We’ve sensitive nerves; we feel things men don’t.” The buttons were all undone. I pressed my hand against his shirt, and then I trailed down to his trousers. “I think she meant something to you. After all, you kept the things she left behind.”
“For the police.” He sounded strangled.
“Ah, but how can I believe that, knowing you as I do? You were working on Dorothy Bennett even then, weren’t you? How could you want the police anywhere around? I think you kept those things because you cared for her—”
He caught my wrist, stilling it. “How little you know of it, chère.” He jerked me against him, kissing me with such violence that his teeth ground against mine, and when I tried to pull away, he wouldn’t let me. When I managed to say, “The door—” he glanced up, and then without a word he grabbed my arm, pausing only a moment to be sure the hall was clear before he propelled me from the library and down the hallway toward his bedroom. Once we were there, he fished in his pocket for the key and then he hauled me inside impatiently.
He didn’t loose his hold on my arm as he relocked the door, but I felt the way the simple turn of the key restored him. When he turned back to me, it was with a slow thoughtfulness, but I knew how hard had been his struggle to curb his violence and his temper. He was breathing as heavily as I was.
THE BRONZE CLOCK on the mantel of the fireplace read midnight. We had gone without supper, and he’d left me long enough to retrieve some bread and cheese from the kitchen, which we’d eaten by the low-wicked light of the oil lamp on the bedside table. My legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, my body pressed into the lean hardness of his side. He was playing with my hair where it spread across his chest, spinning strands of it around his finger and then letting it fall loose only to spin it again; the gentle, rhythmic tugging lulled me into a half sleep.
Then he said, “What does she say to you?”
The question roused me. I heard his uncertainty, and I turned my hea
d into his chest, smiling against his skin. I knew who he meant; I didn’t bother to pretend otherwise.
“It’s not what she says, it’s what she shows me. How cruel you were.”
“I was never cruel to her”—a pause—“or perhaps I was. We weren’t a good match.”
“So when you could no longer use her, you sent her away?”
“Oui.” His finger spun my hair. I felt the little sting at my scalp as he pulled too tight. “I don’t doubt she hates me. Or that she wants vengeance. You mustn’t trust her, chère. She’d lie to hurt me.”
“Why?”
He was silent.
“Let me see what she left behind,” I whispered.
He made a sound of frustration and pulled away, dislodging me as he climbed from the bed and went naked to the armoire in the corner. His movements were tight and angry as he opened the door, as he rummaged through it. Then, finally, he turned, holding a small carpetbag—the same one she’d been carrying in my vision?
“Here,” he said, throwing it so it landed with a soft thump on the bed. “Do what you want with it. Burn it if you like.”
I grabbed it and pulled it close. When I touched it, I smelled her perfume. Citrusy, woodsy. “What’s inside?”
He shrugged. “Some clothes. A brush.”
I sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover my breasts, and took the bag into my lap. Michel came and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face in his hands, his back to me.
I felt the tension of his waiting, and my own curiosity, my certainty that Adele held the answers to my questions, made me undo the clasp; it clicked softly, and then I pulled it open.
Her scent wafted so powerfully I found myself lurching back, as if her spirit came with it. Then I reached inside. My fingers encountered softness—fabric, fine and thin—and I drew it out. A dressing gown, decorated with ribbons and lace, of a lawn so sheer it would be almost indecent to wear it. I ran it through my fingers, searching it for some clue, though I hardly knew what I was looking for. Bloodstains, perhaps? A rip in the fabric to show how she’d died? But then I remembered the vision, and I knew she’d been wearing a dress when she died. Not this. I would have recognized this.