“If you can see so much, why wasn’t her handkerchief enough?” Christine demanded. “Do you think I like it that my mother has behaved so badly? Why would I want anyone else reading her diary?”
“I’ve told you, young lady, that merely holding her book will bring me the visions I need to—”
“Why does that sound even phonier than those Bibles Mama sold to the ladies in North Platte?”
Even as she said it, Christine knew she’d gone too far. Tucker’s mother, exasperating when she spoke Cajun French and stared at her with those penetrating eyes, now looked livid enough to slap her out of her chair.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said, turning away. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. Do you know how hard this is—preparing to see Mama after three years, knowing the awful things she’s done? Anyone would be distracted. And agitated. And very, very angry.”
“So your talk with Jesus yesterday changed nothing?” Veronique demanded with a haughty rise of her eyebrows. “If He assured you of His help, and you have already forgotten the relief His promises brought you, why should I try? Oh, ye of little faith.”
“Enough!” Tucker cried. “You are two cats scratching out each other’s eyes. You cannot show up at her house this way.”
His expression darkened like an oncoming storm. If Tucker had reached the end of his patience, saint that he was, Christine felt she should heed his warning.
She would’ve preferred to meet Mama alone—to suffer the humiliation and get answers she wanted no one else to hear—but Mama would probably recognize her and run. Far better to beat Madame Bristeaux at her own deception when she had help from this man who loved her. If only he would silence his hateful old mother. Or just make her stay behind.
But that wasn’t going to happen. And neither would tonight’s séance, if they didn’t settle themselves.
Christine drew a deep breath and sat taller, as Miss Vanderbilt had taught her. A true lady rose above the sticks and stones others threw; a true Christian turned the other cheek, suffering for the higher good of all. They had one chance to make her dream a reality. It could not be her fault if the evening fell to pieces.
“Does it strike you as odd that Mr. Harte—supposedly a close friend of Madame Bristeaux—arranged this sitting for us?” she ventured.
That was another of Miss Vanderbilt’s rules for navigating rough conversational waters: When the going gets rough, change the subject.
“After all, he overheard parts of our conversation on the train, about why we wanted to see her,” she added. “And how we intend to trap her.”
Tucker considered this, tapping his chin with his fingertips.
“Your meeting him, it felt too—providential to pass up,” he replied in a low voice. “Mediums, they do not invite just anyone to their séances. Mr. Harte was the connection we needed—and he didn’t have to drop that card in your lap.”
“His motivations are as dubious as our own,” Veronique confirmed, “but he has his reasons—as I do—for helping you, Miss Bristol. All the more incentive to have your story in order if we have to outwit two opponents.”
Christine kept her sigh to herself. Why did so many things seem ready to go wrong tonight? If the seer seated across from her knew so much, why didn’t she act upon it?
Why did it have to be so difficult to see her own mother?
“All right, let’s try this again,” she murmured. “My name is Emma Clark, and you’re my mother, Rachel. We’re here to contact my beloved father—your husband—Owen Clark, who died last month of . . .”
Veronique rapped sharply with the brass door knocker. Then she crossed herself, whispering, “Saint Michael, protect us from all evil . . . Saint Gabriel, give us the right words . . . Mary, Blessed Mother, wrap your grace around us like a cloak. . . .”
The coppery tang of fear filled Christine’s mouth. Beneath the drabbest black dress, borrowed from Tucker’s mother, her knees knocked. The mourning veil of black lace she’d sewn to an old hat made it very difficult to see. She’d tripped coming up the stairs to this imposing house, situated in a neighborhood noted for its mine owners and millionaires. Would her disguise be her undoing, rather than a way to enter Mama’s home unrecognized?
But here they were—on the doorstep at last! Besides being the answer to her prayers and the fulfillment of her mission, this was her chance to outfox Mama. Her chance for answers after three years of dealing with a betrayal of the basest sort.
Yes, this little scheme was underhanded, but they all agreed Virgilia Bristol wouldn’t see Christine any other way. Mama’s activities suggested she wanted no reminders of the family she’d abandoned.
Light footsteps on the vestibule floor made her stiffen. The cold night air stung her lungs. As though to keep her from running off, Veronique slipped an arm around her shoulders. Even through their two heavy veils, Christine could read those dark, shining eyes: It will be your fault if she suspects our ruse and sends us away.
Christine glanced across the street, where Tucker awaited them in a parked carriage. As the door opened, she braced herself, pressing her lips into a tight line to keep from crying out.
Oh God, it was Mama.
She wore a simple dress of deep green silk that set off her elegant figure and complemented her auburn hair. Her smile looked so warm as she welcomed them inside.
“You must be the Clarks,” she said, with just a hint of a French accent. “I’m so happy you could come this evening. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Christine stifled a sob—which Veronique covered by pulling her closer.
“We thank you so much for allowing us a place at your table,” Tucker’s mother replied just as graciously. “Emma has been inconsolable since her daddy died.”
How much of this could she stand? Why had she thought it would be so easy to foil her mother—or to pass herself off as someone this woman had never met? Mama looked downright radiant with her success as a trance medium. Much more self-assured than she’d been back home.
Don’t think about home, her whirling thoughts warned. Watch Mama for cues, so you won’t make stupid mistakes!
“I understand your husband passed just recently, Mrs.—”
“Yes, my dear Owen was out tending our horses—he raised the finest registered Arabians in Colorado—” Veronique cut in with a quiver in her voice. “That is, until rustlers rode in one night and shot him down, along with Emma’s twin brother. Poor dear saw the whole thing. She’s hardly said three words or eaten a meal since.”
As Tucker’s mother had predicted, Mama would make pleasant conversation to gain information, which would render her messages from the Beyond more accurate and believable. They had concocted a story that closely resembled the circumstances of Mrs. Bristol’s husband’s murder, so they could watch her reaction. They hoped to keep her off-balance.
The face Christine knew so well—the face that looked even lovelier and livelier than she remembered—tightened with the details of Daddy’s own death.
“I—I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured, blinking rapidly.
Was she faking? Or had Veronique’s first arrow struck its mark?
Not that it mattered, because when Mama squeezed her hand, Christine nearly fainted. The blood left her head and she drew a desperate breath, thankful the lace veil hid her stricken expression.
Straighten that spine! Hold your head up and forge forward! Miss Vanderbilt encouraged in her mind.
This is what you’ve lived for, Christine, came Mercy Malloy’s softer voice. I’m so proud of you for not giving up on your mother—for having the gumption to follow through on your dreams.
What she wouldn’t give to have those two women with her now. Somehow Christine found the strength to nod. She then withdrew her hand and knew to keep her mouth shut. They had agreed to let Mama do most of the talking—to let “grief” be their cover, if Christine lost her nerve.
Who could’ve guessed it would be this difficult?
“Well! Shall we join the others in the parlor?” Mama asked lightly.
She gestured toward a room off the vestibule, where the only light was a single candle. “As you may—or may not—know, the spirits of our dearly departed prefer a setting where everyone at the table believes in them, and feels comfortable inviting them to manifest themselves.”
She looked at them pointedly, as though penetrating their veils with her gaze. “If either of you ladies has doubts about contacting those on the Other Side—or if you don’t believe I, through my spirit guide, am truly able to summon them—we won’t waste your time. And we won’t interfere with the wishes of others who’ve come here tonight.”
There it was: Veronique had told her that for most sitters, believing was seeing. Mediums removed any nay-sayers before the séance started.
“Oh, it was Emma’s idea to come,” Mrs. Trudeau assured Mama. “She was the apple of her daddy’s eye, and she so hopes he’s happy now. Living beyond the pain of his sudden, agonizing death—so she can live again, too.”
Christine nodded, making her veil flutter with her eager consent.
“Very well, then,” Mama said. “Let’s meet the others and begin.”
In the parlor sat a round table draped in a dark cloth, with a prismed candle lamp flickering in its center. Five faces turned their way with expectant smiles as Madame Bristeaux gestured toward the two empty seats nearest the door.
“This is Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Emma, who wish to contact their husband and father, Owen,” she said as she took the empty chair across from them. “Mr. and Mrs. Grantham wish to contact their little boy, Lewis. Justine and Anna Merritt are regulars at my table, as they ask advice of their dear departed mother—and I believe you already know Carlton Harte, my associate. Shall we begin by joining hands in a moment of silence, to invoke the presence of those we love?”
What was Carlton Harte doing here? And if he was Mama’s associate, what had happened to Richard Wyndham?
Christine grasped Veronique’s bony hand on her left and the very damp, fleshy one of Anna Merritt on her right. Her pulse pounded. They hadn’t anticipated the detective’s presence. In the unnerving silence that felt like forever, she wondered whether the man she’d met on the train had led them into a trap. He had to know they were trying to catch Mama—had to realize the medium was her mother.
Had he told Mama why they were coming? And why, after arriving in Denver ahead of them on the stagecoach, had he gone to the trouble of locating them at the hotel?
Swallowing hard, she tried to concentrate. In this darkened room, her black lace veil made it difficult to discern the finer points of facial expressions. She wished she’d devised a different disguise.
“I will now contact Lewis through my spirit guide, William Henry,” Mama’s low voice broke the silence. “I will remind you to keep your hands clasped on the table at all times, so the circle of welcoming love remains unbroken for the Granthams.”
William Henry? That’s Billy’s name!
Christine quickly bowed her head again, disguising her dismay. As she peered through her veil at the others, however, they seemed familiar with Madame Bristeaux’s ritual and her spirit guide—the unseen guest who served as a medium’s liaison with those on the Other Side.
Across the table, Mama closed her eyes and lifted her face toward Heaven. She looked so lovely by the light of the lamp, Christine almost cried. Moments later her head dropped gracefully forward until her chin rested on her chest—the classic pose of entering a trance.
Veronique had discussed what to expect—and she herself had read and heard enough to assume there might be disembodied voices and floating objects. Perhaps even table tipping and tapping in response to yes-or-no questions.
Maybe this was where Richard came in. Phony mediums had an accomplice pulling strings and doing things in the darkness to cause such otherworldly effects. Sometimes sitters came to detect such fakery—or marvel at the lack of it—as much as to receive word from their departed loved ones.
“William Henry, are you here?” Mama asked in a faraway voice.
The heavy table rapped twice in response, rising amazingly high before landing on the floor each time. Everyone leaned forward in anticipation, clasping hands more urgently.
Christine swallowed hard, hoping she could handle whatever happened next.
“William Henry,” Mama went on in a detached tone, “we would have you contact the spirit of our dear Lewis Grantham now. The poor boy drowned last month, and his parents wish to hear how he’s doing.”
Quiet crying, probably Mrs. Grantham’s, caused a ripple of grip-tightening. And then Christine swore she smelled . . . fresh, warm cinnamon rolls. Indeed, the room became cozier, as though someone had just opened the oven to take them out!
“Maaaamaaaa? Paaaapaaaaa?” came a high, young voice.
“Lewis, thank God—”
“Oh, darling, it’s you!” the Granthams cried in a heartrending duet.
Christine wanted to scream. That was Billy’s voice! Just as she remembered it, from when he was a frightened little child crying in the nursery.
Why hadn’t she accepted her brother’s offer to bring her west? Her nerves were stretched to the snapping point and she was afraid to breathe—but her brother! Billy would’ve called this mockery to a halt by unmasking himself. To call Mama’s bluff.
Sheer force of will made her open her eyes to watch as the eerie conversation continued between the Granthams and the supposed ghost of their son. Young Lewis was saying, yes, he was being a good boy, and in Heaven there were cinnamon rolls for breakfast every day. Mama’s head remained bowed. Her mouth hung slightly ajar, but her lips didn’t move.
Beside her, Carlton Harte penetrated the darkness with his gaze. And he was watching her. Very closely.
Veronique tapped three times with her thumb against Christine’s wrist—the signal for her to settle down and concentrate.
Now Lewis Grantham’s voice sounded like Billy when he was whining about Wesley making fun of him. With difficulty, Christine squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
She had to remain calm; had to remember the details of their story for when their turn came—in case Owen Clark spoke directly to his dear daughter Emma. They’d chosen the names of Mercy Malloy’s neighbors so Christine would remember them more easily—and because Mama wouldn’t recognize anyone’s name except Daddy’s. And they’d agreed that Veronique would do the talking, as she herself was supposed to be mute with grief.
Still, she wished Billy were here. Their made-up story and veils would be unnecessary if he’d come along, because Madame Bristeaux wouldn’t have bolted at the sight of her best boy. Mama would’ve gone soft like a cream pie and surrendered to them without a fuss.
Christine blinked. While she’d been lost in thought, Madame Bristeaux had contacted the Merritt sisters’ mother, and the woman beside her was nearly squeezing her hand off.
“Mother! Mother, thank you so much for coming to us tonight!” Justine was gushing.
“It’s such a comfort, knowing you’re all right,” Anna added with a hitch in her voice. She had a death grip on Christine’s hand, and her ample bosom was quivering. “We’re doing our best to disburse your bequests as you wished, Mother, but we’re wondering about your gift to the church. Reverend Wilkes has suggested several uses for it, but we can’t decide—”
From somewhere behind Mama came sonorous chords, which modulated into the melody for “Amazing Grace.” Everyone at the table gasped with delight at this manifestation, and Justine seemed beside herself.
“The organ fund! Of course, Mother!” she cried.
As the two sisters rhapsodized over the hymn and this answer from Above, Christine rolled her eyes. She knew an accordion when she heard one! Her guess was that someone was playing it in the large cabinet against the far wall. Richard Wyndham, perhaps?
Carlton’s cough brought her back to the present. Unless Mama was going to contact someone fo
r Mr. Harte, their turn was next.
She reminded herself of the plan they’d gone over a dozen times. She was to let Veronique do the talking; she was to refrain from challenging anything Mama said, or from baiting her with mannerisms and reminders of their life in Missouri. When the séance ended, they would linger after the others left to express their gratitude—so she could grasp Mama by one hand while Veronique grabbed the other. Then she could reveal herself! Mama would be her captive audience!
But how much could the detective see through her veil? His presence put a cramp in their plan. They’d have to be ready for anything—for she still didn’t know why Madame Bristeaux’s “associate” was here. If things went wrong—if it seemed they would be the captives—Christine was to gag as though she needed to vomit, and they would leave immediately.
As agitated as she felt, while everyone else sang along with that damned accordion music, vomiting might be the most authentic thing she did this evening. When the hymn ended she inhaled deeply, preparing herself.
The room went silent. Mama, her eyes closed and her porcelain complexion aglow in the lamp’s light, raised her face again.
Christine noticed the sparkle of earrings—diamonds, perhaps?—beneath her stylishly arranged auburn hair. While genuine mediums didn’t charge their sitters money, Mama had received some very generous gifts from either her grateful guests or whichever man was looking after her these days. This palatial home was a testament to her success.
I could wear my hair that way. Her thoughts strayed. And maybe someday those earrings will be mine . . . Mama’s reward for the way I’ve come after her, and never forgotten her. . . .
“William Henry, are you still with us?” Mama asked in that wraithlike voice. “Mrs. Clark and young Emma would like to speak with Owen, please.”
The candle went out.
Everyone gasped, grabbing hands in the darkness with fearful faces—everyone except Harte, who gazed sharply around the table and then up toward the ceiling. Not a breath of air stirred, so how had the flame inside the glass globe been extinguished?
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 19