“But she brought Stephen home.” Edwina was sniffing, now flanked by Bobbie.
“It was a trick,” Jenson said as he sat up, and against the desk.
“Smoke box behind the desk,” Amethyst said. “Magic lantern up there.” She quickly pointed to the mantel as she fussed over Jenson, picking a plate of prismatic glass that had caught on his waistcoat from him. Thankfully it was a complete frame and not broken to a cutting edge.
Monty swung back to the supposed medium. “Get out of my house before I have you arrested!”
“You can’t,” Henchman sneered, still not quite standing up right. “Done nothing illegal.”
“I’m a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard,” Jenson grouched where he sat with his back against the desk. “Assaulting a police officer is a criminal offence. Get out before I decide to arrest you.”
Henchman grabbed Madame Esmeralda’s upper arm and as she complained about her belongings, he muttered about a price worth paying.
In the wake of their departure, the seven stayed still and silent, until Amethyst turned to Jenson.
“How are you feeling?”
He tentatively touched the rising bump on his head. “I’ll have a headache for a few hours, but I’ll be fine.”
“Ice.” Maker leaned down and offered a hand, which Jenson took as an aid to help him stand.
Similarly, Monty offered to help Amethyst. She reached up with the hand that still had the glass panel in it, Monty took her by the forearm, but suddenly she pulled back with a sharp intake of breath and eyes so wide she could almost feel them drying out.
“I only‒”
“No, no it’s not that.” Unable to believe her eyes, she held the glass panel up again and looked towards Edwina. “Erm, is Stephen about Jenson’s height, a little more padded about the waist and, erm, with a receding hairline?”
Now everyone was looking at her.
“Not in any of the images I’ve seen,” Bobbie said when no one else answered.
“Yet in truth, yes.” Monty answered, frowning at Amethyst.
She offered an uncertain smile and held out her hand, the one without the glass, and took his assistance to stand. “Edwina, don’t move.” She moved closer to Monty and held up the glass. “Look through that at your sister.”
Monty frowned as he did so. Gasped and stumbled back.
“Stephen?” His hand was at his mouth, struggling to understand. “My God, did that woman…?”
“Of course not,” Amethyst said and concentrated on the image she could see through the glass. There were Edwina and Bobbie, and on the other side of his wife, stood the fractured image of Stephen Russell. It was like seven or more of him were standing there, each a slightly different colour and moving at slightly different paces. She lowered the glass and could see only the men she knew to be in the room. She lifted the glass again and there he was. A man unfocused. “Oh my God, that’s what you were doing.” Now the man she could see through the glass turned to look at her. He seemed curious, he moved towards her. His lips moved, but she heard nothing. Then he pointed, first to her then to him. “Yes!” She realised what he was trying to say. “Yes, I can see you, Stephen, I just can’t hear you.” She stepped closer and put out her hand. It disappeared right through the man who was oddly there. “And apparently I can’t touch you either.”
“Stephen’s here?”
Bobbie had to guide Edwina back to a chair as the woman near fainted. Amethyst watched the concern as Stephen rushed to his wife’s side. She looked down and saw that part of the broken shade was still attached to the lamp.
“Stephen, go sit in the chair were Great-Aunt Flora was.”
As no one moved, all of them looking at Amethyst as if she were completely mad, she slid the pane of prismatic glass onto the desk, then reached out for the body of the lamp. A quick adjustment of the crumpled wire frame to adjust the remaining glass pane to an upright position, and she placed it on the table between Edwina and the empty chair where Great-Aunt Flora had sat for the séance.
“Stephen!” Edwina gasped. “Is that really you?”
Others were gathering around Edwina and looking through the glass. Amethyst reached for the pane and passed it to Jenson, who, with Maker, was clearly curious but not wanting to get in the way of the ladies looking through the broken lamp. Even Great-Aunt Flora was slack-jawed and impressed.
Edwina looked at her brother. “She wasn’t a charlatan, she did bring him back.”
“No.” Amethyst was already moving towards the easel. She scrubbed out the workings that were there and began rapidly scratching out new ones with chalk. “No, Stephen’s been here all along.” She was writing, her bottom lip between her teeth. “That’s it!” She finished with a flourish and turned around. Everyone else was looking at Stephen through glass, but she needed some too. Looking down, she saw a shard close by. She reached for it and held it before her eyes. “You used the double loop T20 to see if you could increase the range of the machine.” The unfocused image in the glass nodded its head. “But the resonance range went to wide.” Stephen was nodding and smiling and for some reason it was turning red. “You didn’t just transmit your voice, you transmitted yourself. Oh, this is wonderful!”
“Amethyst!”
She lowered the glass and looked at Great-Aunt Flora. “I’m sorry but it is wonderful. It means Stephen isn’t dead. He’s right here. All I have to do is figure out how to pull him back out of the aether and into the here and now.”
“No,” Great-Aunt Flora said with great authority. “What you have to do now is get that cut seen to before you bleed all over the carpet.”
In confusion, Amethyst looked down, realising that the red she was seeing over Stephen’s image was her own blood. The glass shard had sliced into her finger.
That evening, the table was devoid of chatter, after the séance, there was a quite agreement that news of Stephen’s presence would remain restricted. Maker sat back quietly with his thoughts. Great-Aunt Flora had retired with Amethyst once the young lady’s hand was seen to. Maker was reasonably confident that those ladies were choosing to dine alone not because of the cut on Amethyst’s hand, but to avoid the rest of the group. Jenson’s head swelling had receded greatly after the application of much ice, yet he too was dining in his room. Edwina similarly had decided to eat separately and with Felix, needing her son more than her guests at this moment.
Without their calming influences, even Lady Garrington-Smythe struggled to keep this lot in hand. Dessert had barely been served when she stood, declaring that it was time for the ladies to withdraw.
That left Maker with Monty, Chalmers and Lovesey. A less agreeable company he was struggling to imagine. Chalmers and Lovesey moved towards the brandy and the cigars. One of the footmen brought brandy bowls to Maker and Monty.
“I will have her, you know,” Monty whispered to him. “For all the baubles you give.”
Maker met Monty’s eye easily and without expression. Such neutrality had become his habit and his mask. And helped him to win a lot more at poker. “Meaning?”
“Miss Forester. I have proposed.”
“Congratulations.” The word tasted foul, so he reached out and took up the brandy bowl, rolling the amber liquid around the body of the glass. The sip didn’t sting enough to take the taint away.
“Yet you still gave her that pendant.”
Maker looked at Monty. Silently questioning the statement.
Now he saw the uncertainty in the other man’s eyes. “Did you not?”
“Violet.”
It took a moment but he saw the understanding rise. “It would be foolish to risk such a thing beneath your own wife’s nose, I suppose.” Now confusion rose in the other man’s countenance. “Then where did she get the jewel?”
Maker said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
“Of course,” Monty said, waiting until he had Maker’s full attention. “My reaction to your interest i
n Miss Forester is less of a problem than Violet’s.”
Chapter 38
Jenson couldn’t sleep. Too much information was swirling around in his mind, though thankfully the bump on his head was down and the bruise caused no issues. Too restless to stay in his room, he’d headed out for a late-night stroll, and it had quite cleared his head. Now in the early hours, he was returning. Thankfully there was a full moon, a cloudless sky, many windows and skylights enough for Jenson to move through the house without a leading candle.
The thud was heavy.
Like a sack of potatoes dropped, but no one would have a sack, let alone potatoes up by the guest bedrooms. Jenson turned back towards the sound, frowning and searching for the source.
A door closed.
The movement caught his eye. The Makers’ room.
Another movement, and it took his eyes a moment to focus in the dim light. He crossed the quadrant balcony even as Maker struggled to haul himself to his feet. Without shoes or socks, his nightshirt over long calico drawers, bloodstains marred the back of the shirt, dark shadows beneath the finer cotton. Jenson recognised a man who’d been badly beaten when he saw one.
“Here.” The whispered word aimed to reassure as he pulled Maker’s arm over his shoulder and half held him up by the waist. “Let’s get you to my room. I’ll clean you up there.”
Progress around the balcony was necessarily slow. Maker was in a great deal of pain, tension ran through him and his jaw clenched. They headed down the corridor. The way Maker’s breathing shuddered and the rapid pulse Jenson felt under his fingers were a concern. This kind of injury could lead to all sorts of complications.
Finally, Maker’s strength gave out and his knees buckled beneath him, dropping him to the floor.
“Come on,” Jenson tried to encourage. “My ‒”
“What’s ‒”
Jenson looked back to see Amethyst at her bedroom door, the one they had just passed. She stood in bare feet, with neat ankles that flared up to calves only to disappear under the length of a long man’s nightshirt. Under a riot of untamed, unfettered waves of hair, her attention switched immediately to the stricken Maker.
“Get him in here, quick.”
She held the door and Jenson scooped Maker up, virtually carrying him to Amethyst’s bedroom. As Jenson eased the taller man to the bed, Amethyst poured water from the jug to the bowl on the side. “Take his shirt off.”
“Amme.”
“Don’t complain Maker, comply.”
Now she searched through a drawer as Jenson shooed away the green-eyed cat and helped lift the fabric of the nightshirt up over Maker’s head with as little disturbance to the man himself as possible. Experienced in the results of fights, Jenson saw days, possibly weeks of bruising all over Maker. Mostly his back and his arms, though his shins and his legs weren’t entirely unblemished. The fact that there was little damage done to the chest or torso meant an assault from behind, or he’d been protecting his front during the attack. Now wasn’t the time to ask. Scent filled his nostrils, demanding acknowledgement.
“Lavender?”
She nodded as she brought the bowl towards the bed and slid it onto the bedside cabinet. The white bandage around her left index finger didn’t seem to be hampering her movement any. “A few drops of oil in the water will help clean and sooth the welts.”
Welts there were, indeed.
“Lie down.”
Maker’s head hung. “Amme.”
She took his chin in her hand and turned him to face her. His expression was one of shame, but Amethyst watched Maker with a more clinical eye.
“She had the good sense not to hit your face then.” She moved her hand away. “Lie on your front so I can get to your back.” No one moved. “Now.”
Slowly and carefully, Maker twisted and used the strength in his arms to lower himself. Amethyst tried to undo a small brown vial. It seemed the top was on too tight and she struggled with the grip on her left hand. Jenson reached out to take it. It stuck for a moment, then gave way.
“What is it?”
“Witch hazel.”
Jenson stood back and watched her minister gently to the wounded man.
He tried not to be bothered by the fact that Maker lay in the bed Amethyst had clearly just vacated, the thrown aside sheets showing the speed with which she’d left it. The way Maker buried his face into the pillows and bedding suggested the man was taking in her scent. Did her warmth linger too? Jenson wasn’t sure he’d ever envied any man so much.
“Is there anything I can do?” He needed a diversion.
She didn’t turn from her task. “Fetch Blanchard.”
“No.” The word was muffled.
Now Amethyst stopped and looked down at Maker, who still couldn’t meet her eye. “You don’t get a say in this.” She turned to Jenson, tipped her head towards the door.
It probably wasn’t a great idea to leave the two of them alone for any length of time, but then, Maker was in absolutely no condition to do anything compromising. Jenson got as far as the door when he heard steps. He glanced down the hall. The steps came from the balcony and he moved to see. Lord Montgomery sneaking around. Why? As the owner of the house, he didn’t need to sneak anywhere. Then he knocked gently on a bedroom door, a door which opened, revealing a barely dressed Lady Violet, who grabbed Montgomery by the shirt and drew him in.
More steps approached, and Jenson looked behind him to see Blanchard coming down the corridor.
“What are you doing here?” The valet eyed the fact that Jenson was fully dressed despite the hour.
“Coming to fetch you. Maker’s in there.” Jenson pointed towards Amethyst’s door.
“Lucky-”
With a tut, Jenson walked back through the still open door. As soon as Blanchard saw his master, his pace quickened, and he stepped up to take over from Amethyst. The fire was dying, but as he stood before it, Jenson found himself unexpectedly warm. Allowing the valet to do his job, Amethyst moved to Jenson’s side.
“What happened?”
He saw her hugging herself and shivering. Removing his own jacket and putting it around her was done without a thought. “Don’t know.”
Eyes as hard as granite cut into him. “Don’t lie to me, Dean.”
The use of his name stopped him in his tracks as he pulled the lapels of his jacket closed over her nightshirt. He tried not to notice that it was an exact duplicate of the one Maker wore.
“He was on the balcony unable to stand when I found him.” He kept his voice down, partly not to disturb Maker but the cold lump in his stomach reminded him of his distaste for lying. Her gaze bore into him, her lips compressed, then she turned her head to look at Maker. It seemed this was going to be another thing that didn’t get discussed. His hands dropped away, and they simply stood side by side again.
Blanchard put the cloth back in the water bowl and moved over to join them, also keeping his voice low. “I have a tincture in my room that will help with the pain. If we get him up there…”
Jenson shook his head. “He couldn’t walk as far as my room, we’ll never get him to the servants’ quarters.”
“Leave him here.”
The prospect of letting Maker sleep with Amethyst sent chills down Jenson’s spine. “I’ll go up to the servants’ quarters. I’m sure that Mrs Oxbridge can find room for me.”
The formidable housekeeper would not approve.
“Couldn’t you share with your Great-Aunt Flora?” Jenson asked.
“I’d really rather like to retain my hearing. Not to mention get some sleep. I have work to do in the morning.”
With an understanding nod, he looked back to Amethyst. “Then you take my room. I can sleep anywhere.”
“Thank you.”
He shouldn’t feel overheated just because she put a hand on his arm, especially not such a glancing touch.
“But I can’t do that either. No one would ever believe that I didn’t spend the night there with you. N
o, if I wake Mrs Oxbridge and ask her to find me a room in the servant’s quarters, I’ll have a witness and a defence.”
Chapter 39
Quite what Amethyst had expected as they gathered for church, she wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t this overriding sense of animosity. Each of them in their fine day wear, so different from the featureless black and purple pinstripe she had selected. As much as she liked the new gown, it clearly wasn’t up to expected standards here. Most of the reason for selecting the outfit was because she’d only brought one pair of outdoor gloves, and they were black. She’d had to have Dickens reduce the quantity of bandaging on her finger to get her hand into the glove, but at least it looked less obvious. Even Bobbie looked very ladylike in a demure, elegant silver-grey gown, and utterly feminine. It was the first time she had seen her friend in a dress and suddenly she felt rather dowdy in comparison.
She moved around the sofa and sat beside Great-Aunt Flora, offering cordial greetings to everyone in the room, even Violet, who ostensibly ignored her. Such a snub meant nothing to her, it was something of a relief. Being ignored by Lady Fotheringham was easier than actually having to talk to the woman. Cynthia and Charlotte, surprisingly, returned her greeting.
In truth, she was too tired to worry about such things. She hadn’t slept at all well with concern for Maker and his injuries weighing heavily on her.
“Is all quite well, Amethyst?” Lady Garrington-Smythe asked in an undertone.
She nodded, glanced around the room, seeing the speculation and curiosity. Clearly, everything was a long way from being well. She looked at Lady Garrington-Smythe and wondered. Before she could speak, Lady Cynthia’s words cut across the room.
“Miss Forester.”
Amethyst turned to the older woman.
“You look a little tired this morning. Did you not sleep well?”
She hadn’t, at all, but she didn’t really want to talk about. “Some nights are better than others.”
Cynthia smiled, the look implying things that Amethyst didn’t want to speak of. “I imagine so.”
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