Upset me?
Christine began swallowing convulsively, unable to think—much less answer this man. The blood rushed from her head. The seats and people began to spin at a frightening tilt.
Stop this! You can’t let him win without even putting up a fight! He hasn’t even touched you—yet! What if he—
“—but I’m a close friend of Madame, and I—” He blinked. “Are you all right, miss? May I help you—?”
Without a sound, Tucker’s mother had come up the aisle and slipped an arm around her shoulders. Veronique Trudeau only stood as high as this gentleman’s chest, yet there was no denying the power that surrounded her like a host of invisible, invincible angels.
“I believe you are disembarking, sir?” she demanded coolly.
He blinked, as though startled or disarmed by those spirits he couldn’t see. “Yes—yes, of course,” he mumbled.
As he touched his cane to his hat, however, he dropped a small vellum card into Christine’s lap.
Mrs. Trudeau watched him with those probing black eyes, releasing Christine after he had left the car. She returned to her seat and gathered her shawl and rosary, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
What had happened?
When Christine could draw breath again, she realized Tucker’s mother had not only driven away that stranger with the incredible force of her presence but had spoken perfect English. Had used the word disembark as confidently as Miss Vanderbilt would have said it.
She gaped back at Veronique, her pulse still racing. If that had been Richard Wyndham, he might be waiting for them when they stepped off the train, or—
The calling card in her hand bore an angular, mannish script: MADAME V. BRISTEAUX, TRANCE MEDIUM, he’d written, along with a house number on Thirteenth Street. And when she turned it over, the front of the card announced him as Carlton Harte, of the Harte Detective Agency.
If this man were really an investigator—and had called Mama a close friend—what should she anticipate? Her heart was still pounding too fast. At any moment Mr. Harte might return and not be so cordial. After all, he’d heard how she and Tucker were planning to beat Mama at her own game. He might even go straight to her at this address in Denver and—
This is Mama’s address. We’re nearly there.
The air rushed from her lungs. And as she dared to look up, to see if Mr. Harte was coming back to abduct her, she noticed that three of the men standing up to stretch wore handlebar mustaches. Waxed and curved into perfect circles at the ends. Devilish when they smiled at her, yes, but a sign of impeccable grooming.
It was a popular way to wear a mustache, after all.
Christine deflated in her seat. She closed her eyes, chiding herself for falling prey to her imagination—to the wicked associations she’d had since she first saw that photograph of Mama and Richard Wyndham. If one look—one mustache among dozens—sent her into conniptions, she was in serious trouble. How could she face her wily mother and get the answers she needed if she behaved like such a witless ninny?
“Chérie? You are ready to go?”
Now there was a question. She opened her eyes, so relieved to see Tucker that she threw her arms open, begging shamelessly for his embrace. His beard rippled with his grin as he leaned down.
“I cannot refuse you, you know,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. “Your wish is my command, ma princesse.”
And here was her answer—wrapped in this man’s strong, loving arms. When had she ever felt so safe and cherished? Well . . . not since Mama held her, as a child.
Christine kissed his cheek with unabashed enthusiasm, causing those around them to chuckle indulgently. Then she handed Tucker the calling card Fate itself had dropped into her lap.
“We must go to Mama—now,” she murmured urgently. “I can’t do this alone, Tucker. I’ll love you forever if you see me through this.”
Chapter Twenty
“Why are we in this empty church instead of looking for Mama’s house?” Christine whispered impatiently. “We’ve already lost so much time. And it’s cold in here!”
She swatted at the dark lace scarf his mother had insisted she cover her head with, a better sign of reverence than her own stylish hat, supposedly. How it had galled her, that this mismatched witch presumed to tell her what apparel was acceptable. As though enduring endless days with that woman on the rugged, snowy road—being passed by stagecoaches that swept along behind sleek, sure-footed teams—weren’t enough of a challenge
“Maman, she wants to pray. To renew herself,” Tucker replied. He glanced through the dimness of the drafty chapel to where his mother was lighting candles in front of the Blessed Virgin. “More than two months it’s been since we left home—left behind the priest she knows, and the comforts of the confessional and the mass.”
Christine sighed, more intrigued by the wisps of vapor that escaped his lips than by his mother’s religious life. But still—they were in Denver at last! Didn’t he realize she had to find Mama soon, before that detective messed everything up?
Her first glimpse of this city, a grid of wintry streets that bustled with business, had made her heart skip into triple-time. How would they ever find Mama’s house among all these impressive brick buildings? Odd enough that her superstitious mother lived on Thirteenth Street; it seemed a worse omen that Tucker was letting his mother have her way again, when finding Mama was her mission.
Slipping her frigid fingers beneath her arms to warm them, Christine glanced at the little woman standing before the statue of the Virgin Mary—apparently in a trance of adoration. “Why did she ask for something of Mama’s? I wasn’t about to let her read the diary, so I gave her a lace handkerchief instead.”
Tucker indulged her with a smile. “She will consecrate it, chérie. Maman, she is sorry for the way those widows in North Platte persecuted you,” he said softly. “She wants to help you. She is searching for your mother’s spirit, which resides in her personal items. She also needs the blessing of God and the angels she calls upon.”
Maman was kneeling before Mary now, praying with the handkerchief between her hands.
“Some think her a witch, you know,” he went on. “But Maman, she does nothing without calling upon Our Father and His son, Jesus. This is why we trust she is working divine magic rather than sorcery.”
Divine magic.
Christine shivered. All around her, on the walls and vaulted ceilings, Christ in his crown of thorns reminded her of the supreme sacrifice He made so long ago. In stained glass and dark, polished statuary He bore His cross to Calvary and then died on it, His eyes filled with compassion and sadness.
Their church back home hadn’t been filled with such artwork. So many reminders of the way Jesus suffered and died.
Beside her, Tucker went to his knees. She felt like an intruder. She didn’t want to eavesdrop on his prayers but didn’t know what else to do with herself.
“Would—would it be improper to walk around and look at things?” she whispered.
He smiled kindly. “Of course not. It is a beautiful place, non? A fitting place to worship and rest in the Lord.”
Christine smiled nervously and stood. If she didn’t get moving soon, she’d freeze to the pew—or say something she’d regret—and Tucker would know how out of place she felt among the symbols of his faith.
Silently she sidestepped a larger-than-life statue of Saint Matthew in the corner and ambled along the outer aisle. Above her, ornately carved pictures with Roman numerals at the bottom depicted scenes of Christ on His way to be crucified. STATIONS OF THE CROSS, GIVEN IN LOVING MEMORY OF MURIEL BANCROFT, she read on a plaque at the back of the sanctuary.
An arched doorway opened to a hall where she guessed the priest might have his office. Another statue—Saint Luke—ruled over this corner.
Christine continued along the back wall, tempted to slip out through the door they’d come in a while ago. She could be asking someone how to get to Thirteenth
Street. She could use this time to do some sleuthing—and be back before the Trudeaus even missed her.
Here, the light from a magnificent round window of stained glass bathed the back aisle in a pastel rainbow, even though the sun wasn’t shining. The air around her seemed to glow, warming her like an invisible cloak.
THE ROSE WINDOW, A GIFT OF THE GILMORE FAMILY TO HONOR MARY, OUR HOLY MOTHER, the brass plaque near the door read.
It caught her eye then, a painting she hadn’t seen when they came inside. Mary and Jesus were arrayed in shimmering shades of blue and cream so soft she wanted to reach out and touch them. Their hearts, afire with love for all to see, were portrayed on the outside of their flowing clothes. Their faces were alight with kindness and tender mercy.
Jesus was looking right at her.
Christine knew it was only a painting, but the eyes looked so real. When she’d caught her breath and gotten her imagination under control, something compelled her to look again.
Don’t be afraid.
Sucking in her breath, she glanced back at Tucker. But he was still kneeling, with his hands and face resting on the pew in front of him. He hadn’t spoken . . . which meant she must be hearing things.
I am with you always. Believe this with all your heart and miracles can happen.
Her throat tightened and a tear rolled down her cheek. Had someone spoken, or was that voice inside her head? It spooked her, standing here in this huge sanctuary lit only by candles, empty except for the three of them. This was absolutely crazy, because she wasn’t a Catholic—
You can hear me because you’re ready for a higher understanding.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Christine fought the urge to bolt for the door. If it weren’t snowing—if she knew how to get back to the hotel—if it weren’t horribly impolite to run out of a church—
Be still and know that I am God. Look at me again, my child.
Very slowly, half afraid of what she might see, Christine turned her head. When she opened her eyes, the painting had not changed. Jesus and Mary still smiled invitingly, their faces aglow from their haloes and the fires in their hearts. Their open, extended hands beckoned her.
And yes, Christ was looking at her! As though it were the most natural, normal thing in the world for Him to whisper inside her head—because He knew only a very blatant sign of His presence would make her stop and listen.
He smiled as though He knew her by name. Knew her every thought, and loved her anyway.
Of course I know your name! You are my lamb, Christine—named for me.
Her skin prickled with gooseflesh. She swallowed hard and her hand fluttered to her throat. This was divine magic, and it was happening to her.
Christine suddenly realized the meaning of holy; suddenly understood the phrase hallowed be Thy name, which she’d prayed since she was a child. She’d been mimicking Mama as she learned the Lord’s Prayer, and after that she’d said the words because everyone around her was. Divine magic now made these ideas real. As real and alive as the heart pounding faster in her chest.
But if divine magic hadn’t saved the perfect Son of God from those thorns and the nails of the crucifixion, why did she think she had the slightest chance?
It was a daunting question. One that hadn’t occurred to her as she’d sat in the pew beside Mama, whispering about what the other women wore—or on the benches in Mercy’s yard, wishing she were someplace else as the circuit rider droned on. She’d never thought about the meaning of her faith, or her salvation, because church had been mostly a social gathering. Something families did on Sundays.
She turned to see if Veronique was casting a spell on her.
But Tucker’s mother was still on her knees, draped in a black lace veil before the rows of flickering candles at Mary’s feet.
Something odd was going on here. Voices. Paintings come to life. Profound thoughts about what Christ and His cross had to do with her. Yet it was something that moved her to silent tears she didn’t wipe away. And as she gazed fixedly at the tiny flames dancing in the sanctuary’s draft, the Virgin Mary seemed to gather the glow of all those candles and magnify them into a single, focused beam.
Christine suddenly saw the light: She had always gone to church, but she’d never really gone to God.
He’d remained a distant patriarch, veiled in mystery, the One she prayed to when she needed something or wanted things to go her way. Even when attending services with the girls at Miss Vanderbilt’s academy, she’d remained removed from the realities of religious faith. Church was a place she went with her friends, like the library or the orphanage, and then went away from.
Here in this dusky, silent sanctuary, mystical with incense and decorated with sacred paintings, Christine stood in awe of all she’d never noticed.
It’s all right. You’re not alone. And I love you anyway.
She pivoted, thinking she’d catch the trick of the picture—an optical illusion that talked in a calming male voice in her mind. But those serene, smiling faces hadn’t changed.
“All right, then,” she whispered, afraid to respond—but afraid not to. “Help me catch Mama! Help me bring her home. How am I supposed to do that?”
Silence. The light from the rose window dimmed, so the colors paled around her.
“I asked you a question,” she murmured more insistently. “Don’t start talking to me and then just stop. It’s terribly rude. Not to mention . . . confusing.”
Christine shuddered, trying not to cry. Here she was, finally realizing why Judd Monroe and Mercy and Michael Malloy so staunchly believed in the Scriptures, teachings she’d given mere lip service to. Yet when she called upon the Lord for help with the most important mission of her life, He didn’t answer!
I always answer prayers. Maybe not the way you expect me to.
“What sort of a—”
“Christine? You are ready to go, chérie?”
Flushing furiously, she turned to see Tucker and his mother standing in the aisle between the last two pews, waiting for her. Had they heard her conversation with Christ? Did they think she was crazy—or disrespectful—to carry on this way with the Savior?
More importantly, had they heard His voice? Did she dare ask?
Christine blinked, aware that her face felt wet. Wearing clothes creased from being crammed in her valise, with her hair in a knot at her nape because it needed washing, she’d never felt more unpresentable for being seen in church—
Being seen. It seemed a pretty shallow reason for showing up on Sundays—
Showing up or showing off?
That was her own voice, but it was as maddening to argue with her conscience as to be caught talking to a painting. Tucker was smiling kindly, like the Christ who had said He’d always be with her. But Veronique must be watching her with those beady, bright eyes, ready to write her off.
Christine fidgeted. Tucker’s mother was just a few feet away, but with that lace veil draped around her head and face, it was impossible to know what Veronique was looking at. Or what her facial expressions said. As Tucker helped his mother with her bulky old coat, Christine also realized that his maman looked like a different woman in a plain gray skirt and ivory blouse.
Why, she looks like a normal, everyday—
It struck her then, like a bolt from the blue—or an answered prayer—how they could approach Mama at her séance table without being detected. Yes, it would take practice and mental preparation for her to pull it off—but hadn’t Billy always yammered about what an actress she was?
And it would require this arrogant Cajun healer to speak the same perfect, unaccented English she’d used to get rid of Carlton Harte. No guarantees on that front if Veronique decided this idea wasn’t to her liking.
But it was a plan. It would at least get them into the address on the detective’s card, to see Madame Bristeaux, the trance medium.
Because if Mama was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, why couldn’t they?
Chapter Twenty-one
“Again! What is your name, and why do you want this sitting?”
Christine bit back a retort, her gaze flitting around the hotel room where she, Tucker, and Veronique were preparing to confront Mama. Finally this witchy woman was speaking to her in English, but she felt like a prisoner at an inquisition.
“I am Emma Clark, and you are my mother, Rachel,” she recited. “We want Madame Bristeaux to contact my recently deceased—”
“Say it like you mean it! I don’t believe you are Emma Clark.”
“Well, that’s too damn bad! I’m sick and tired of making up this story—”
“Which is why she’ll see right through your flimsy disguise,”Veronique snapped. “I can’t help you if you don’t follow through on your plan.”
Christine returned her glare. “Then why help me at all? I can go there by myself—”
“Christine, chérie—and Maman,” Tucker crooned. He came to stand beside the table where they were facing off, and placed placating hands on their shoulders.
“We must be calm and show patience,” he reminded them. “Now that we have found your mother, ma princesse, it would be a shame to spoil your big moment with a mistake. Maman is helping you because she knows how you have missed your—”
“I am helping so this whole ridiculous mother hunt will end,” Veronique said. “The sooner you are with her again, the sooner you are out of my life.”
“Maman, You don’t mean—”
“Oh, yes, she does!” Christine blurted out. “She’s never liked me—has never seen my side of this story. And she never will.”
“Because you don’t believe in me,” the little Gypsy shot back. “If you had trusted me with your mother’s diary, I would know so much more. But no! You show no faith in my God-given gifts as a seer. You think of me as an old witch, when your mother is the deceiver here. So why should I cooperate?”
Christine’s mouth fell open. Once again Veronique Trudeau had been poking around in her private thoughts, and she was tired of it.
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 18