“Very well, Signore. How many of you assume control of Mrs. Clifford’s physical form?”
“We are four. The others will present themselves to you in due time.”
“Why have you chosen to communicate through Mrs. Clifford? What is your purpose?”
“I, along with my cohorts, wish to raise the human race to a higher realm of spiritual consciousness. We hope to accomplish this by telling you of more advanced civilizations in other solar systems, and by proving to you the immortality of the soul.”
“You say there is intelligent life elsewhere in the universe?”
Mrs. Clifford laughed the sort of laugh that otherwise never passes the lips of a lady. “You are a learned man, Dr. Jennings. I wish you would not ask me such questions. We have so little time, by your watch.”
“On the contrary, Sir—I must ask these questions if I am to determine whether you are merely a subliminal portion of Mrs. Clifford’s own personality.”
“That, I fear, is the conclusion you will make regardless of what truths I describe to you.”
“I see,” the doctor replied. “Then I wonder if I might ask you a more practical question. Do you serve solely as Mrs. Clifford’s spiritual conduit, or are you also responsible for her physical well being?”
“I understand your meaning. We did indeed warn her of the danger posed by Mark Vandegrift and his associates. It was her choice to remain vulnerable to his assaults.” Lavinia Clifford lifted her chin, and even through the keyhole Josie could see her eyes were glassy and remote. “I know what else you wish to ask me, Doctor. I know that you will not believe what we say until we have proven the reach of our knowledge. And so now I shall tell you of other things in your own history.”
Again the doctor adopted a cheery tone, though Josie could hear the falseness in it: “I wish you to reveal nothing that would surprise my mother.”
“Your mother has been dead lo these ten years. She has known for quite some time of the things you kept hidden.”
Dr. Jennings made a sound of amusement. “A man without a secret is a man who has not lived.”
“On this we are agreed,” said Mrs. Clifford with that odd masculine laugh. “You do know, don’t you, Doctor, that it was my compatriots who arranged that you should come to Edwardstown to study Mrs. Clifford? I, on the other hand, had my reservations.”
“And why is that?”
“You will not live long enough to complete this work, which would have cemented your reputation.”
Her mother was fearless, Josie had to admit. First she had alluded to some possibly unsavory goings-on in Italy, and now she was predicting the doctor’s premature demise!
“Weak heart,” Dr. Jennings said dryly. “I have already outlived my father.”
Mrs. Clifford nodded, slowly but emphatically. “You seek proof, and proof I shall give you. Then we must begin the work.”
“What sort of proof?”
There was a long silence, the longest yet, and when Mrs. Clifford broke it she no longer spoke in a man’s voice. “Viola. Viola is . . . here.”
The air crackled with electricity. Josie put her knuckle between her teeth with suppressed excitement. “Viola who?” the doctor asked sharply.
Mrs. Clifford’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “You have known only one Viola.”
“I presume I am no longer speaking with Baldassare, the poet of Volterra?”
“It is I, Lavinia Clifford, with Viola’s lips at my ear.”
“Tell me,” the doctor demanded. “What does she say?”
“There was a row at her funeral, which you instigated. Something to do with a rival of yours. Things were said—mean things, petty things. It nearly came to fisticuffs. She was so disappointed, Henry.”
“I don’t see how she could be,” he retorted. “She wasn’t there.”
“She never cared for him in that way. Viola loves you still, but she wishes you had not succumbed to your despair.” The doctor made a noise in his throat, almost as if someone were strangling him. “You wore a gardenia in your buttonhole,” Mrs. Clifford went on. “Clipped from the bush outside her mother’s kitchen window.”
“Flowers at a funeral, eh?”
“Her father . . . he did not come in time. You wrote him a letter, but he never received it. He blamed you for not coming to fetch him.”
Another long pause. The doctor cleared his throat. “I think we have accomplished enough for one day.”
* * *
“Interesting, isn’t it, how ‘feast’ and ‘fast’ are only one letter apart,” Emily remarked as the delectable odors of garlic, sage, and roasting turkey drifted up to the nursery. Mrs. Clifford had decreed there would be no holiday where their schooling was concerned, but the girls knew this was only to keep them out of the servants’ way as they prepared for company. Mr. Berringsley, his sister, and two friends were joining them for dinner at three o’clock. The cook had no time to fix them any luncheon.
“Breakfast feels like a hundred years ago,” Cassie agreed. “Do you suppose I could go down and ask for a little something from Mrs. Dowd?”
The girls went down to the kitchen where Mrs. Dowd promptly shooed them off. So they returned to the school table, and for another two hours Cass went on complaining of her growling stomach. Finally Josie said, “For heaven’s sake, either go down and ask again, or hush up about it.”
Emily gave the little girl a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Perhaps by now she’ll have everything well in hand, and will be more amenable to giving you a little something.”
With a grin of anticipation Cassie slipped out of the room, returning several minutes later with telltale crumbs in the corners of her mouth. “What did she give you?” Josie whispered, but her sister gave her a queer look in place of an answer.
The afternoon wore on, and the scents wafting up from the kitchen continued to tantalize them. Josie completed her essay as Emily patiently listened to Cass read aloud from The Centennial Children’s Book. “May I go down for a snack?” Josie asked.
Emily nodded and glanced at the clock. “There’s only an hour until dinner. I think we’ve done enough studying for today.” Cass whooped as she shut her reader with a thump, and Josie went down the kitchen stairs.
She found her mother consulting with the cook. “Everything nearly ready, Mrs. Dowd?”
“All but the dessert, Mrs. Clifford. I’m afraid I must make another pudding.”
“Why, what’s wrong with the one you made this morning?”
“Someone’s stuck her fingers in it, ma’am.” Mrs. Dowd nodded to the bowl on the counter. “I left it in the pantry to set, and that’s how I found it.”
Mrs. Clifford lifted the cheesecloth to survey the damage. “The little beast!” she said under her breath. “You’re right, Mrs. Dowd. We can’t serve it.”
“Couldn’t you just trim off the damaged part, and put the rest in a smaller dish?”
Josie was rewarded for this suggestion with a scornful glance from her mother. “Go upstairs and find your sister,” she said, and turned back to the cook, “Leave what’s left of the pudding on the table. Do what you can, Mrs. Dowd—whatever dessert is quickest to make.” Then she swept out of the kitchen under a black cloud.
Josie went slowly up the steps. She found Cassie and Emily in front of the vanity, where Em was doing the little girl’s hair. She met her sister’s eyes in the mirror and watched her face fall. “She wants you downstairs.”
“Why?” Emily laid down the hairbrush and gently turned Cassie from the mirror. “What have you done?”
Cass tried to look away, but Emily lifted her chin with a finger. “There’s no sense hiding from it, little one. Confess, and be on your merry way with a clear conscience.”
“If only Mother were so forgiving,” Josie sighed.
“I ate some of the pudding.�
��
“Oh, Cass! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”
She pouted. “Breakfast was ages ago and that mean old Mrs. Dowd wouldn’t give me even a tiny bite to tide me over.” Emily was still regarding her with that sad, regretful look. “I couldn’t help it,” Cass went on in a small voice. “The pudding looked too good.”
“Not anymore,” said Josie.
Emily took Cassie’s hand and led her downstairs. “Well, if it isn’t the little scavenger bird!” said Mrs. Clifford as they stood in the study doorway. “Come in here, Cassandra. You will not cower behind Miss Jasper this time.” Slowly Cass moved into the room, and Emily reached for Josie’s hand. Whatever punishment Cass was given would be almost as unpleasant to witness.
Mrs. Clifford towered over her daughter. “How dare you,” she hissed. “How dare you spoil this meal! Mr. Berringsley is not only my best patron, but he is a good man and entirely self-made. He came from nothing. He spent the Thanksgiving holidays of his childhood in an orphanage.” Cass stood still as stone, staring up at their mother as she raged. “Can you imagine what it feels like to go to bed hungry? Of course not. You will never go to bed hungry while there are men like Mr. Berringsley to provide for you, Cassandra. And yet you could not wait one more hour until dinner. You broke into the pantry, like vermin, and ate your fill.”
Emily squeezed Josie’s hand, and she looked up and saw the tears in her tutor’s eyes. Cass got into mischief like this all the time, but Mrs. Clifford was seldom so hard on her.
“Our friend Mr. Berringsley has a favorite dessert. Can you guess what it is, Cassandra? It is his favorite because it is the last sweet his poor mother ever made him.”
Cassie glared at their mother. Her eyes were two hot little coals burning in her head. “I wish I was an orphan.”
Mrs. Clifford returned the glare. “What did you say?”
“I said I wish I was an orphan.”
So swiftly there wasn’t even time to flinch, Mrs. Clifford reached out and slapped her daughter hard enough to send Cass stumbling sideways into the desk. Emily bit back a cry of anguish. Josie drew a clean handkerchief out of her pinafore pocket and passed it to her.
“You’re a greedy, ungrateful little chit,” spat Mrs. Clifford. “I’m ashamed to call you my child.” Now Cass was heaped like a rag doll on the Turkish carpet, her small hand pressed to her cheek. She wouldn’t cry until she was back in the nursery, in Emily’s arms. “I have told Mrs. Dowd to save the remnants of the pudding. You will eat every last morsel, without pause, if it takes you a week.” She aimed a finger at the door. “Now go to the kitchen.”
Cass got to her feet and walked out of the study, her eyes on the carpet all the way. Emily released Josie’s hand and fled up the stairs. Josie remained in the doorway, watching as her mother calmly seated herself at the desk. Mrs. Clifford looked out the window and smoothed back a wisp of hair that had escaped its careful arrangement. Then she seemed to notice the presence of her elder daughter. “Why are you standing there like an imbecile? Go and find something useful to do before our guests arrive.”
Josie tried to think of some retort, but her mother turned back to the window and the moment passed. So she went down the hall and into the kitchen, where Cass sat with the dessert bowl under the watchful eye of Mrs. Dowd. The bowl was massive, with enough pudding to feed eight people four times over. This time Cass had a spoon.
Josie watched her sister eat, thinking she might take over when the cook’s back was turned to spare her the tummyache. But Mrs. Dowd said, “I’ll not have you interferin’ with that child’s fair punishment. Now get yourself upstairs, Miss Josephine, and put on your good frock.”
Her sister was too doggedly applying herself to the pudding—the taste of which had, no doubt, ceased to please that sharp little tongue—to receive Josie’s parting glance of sympathy. She went upstairs and found Emily sitting on Cassie’s bed, pressing her wet handkerchief to her eyes though her tears were more or less spent.
“She’ll be sick,” Emily whispered as Josie sat down beside her.
“She’ll be all right,” Josie said with a certainty she did not feel.
Cassie was still chained to the kitchen table when the guests arrived, and Mrs. Clifford would not allow her to join them in the dining room.
Mr. Berringsley was as cheerful and as awkward as usual. His sister, Miss Amelia Berringsley, had always been kind, but it was difficult to look at her when you spoke to her, for her eyes never pointed in the same direction. The tall, humorless men who accompanied them—Mr. Bridges and Mr. Gates, both of Manhattan—seemed to be business associates rather than friends. Emily and Josie seated themselves together, Emily flicking nervous glances through the kitchen doorway.
“And where is your laughing cherub?” Mr. Berringsley asked as they seated themselves around the bounty of roast turkey and raisin-studded sage filling, candied sweet potatoes and corned beef hash. “Mrs. Clifford’s younger daughter is a delight,” Berringsley said to his associates, who nodded politely. “I have never met a brighter, more clever, more amiable little girl. I have often told Mrs. Clifford she is destined for the stage.” He turned back to Lavinia, too eager to notice the stiff unsmiling look on her face. “As a matter of fact, one of Amelia’s friends at the conservatory was telling us just the other day that it is never too early to begin her elocution lessons.”
“I’m afraid elocution lessons are out of the question for the time being. Cassandra has not behaved herself today,” Mrs. Clifford replied. “Josephine, will you please give the blessing?” The saying of grace was something they only did in the Berringsleys’ company. Josie got through the words as quickly as she could, hoping to avoid any mistakes in front of their guests. No one seemed to notice how perfunctory the blessing had been apart from Mrs. Clifford, who frowned at her. None of us can do anything right, Josie thought, so is there any use trying?
She ate mechanically, without pleasure. It felt wrong to feast beside Cassie’s empty place.
Miss Berringsley turned to her hostess. “And how are your memoirs coming along, Lavinia? William tells me he has already contacted several publishers in New York on your behalf.”
Josie stared at her mother. On her free afternoons Mrs. Clifford often locked herself in her study, and they could hear the clackety-clack of her Royal typewriter going for hours without pause. Why had she never told them she was writing a book?
“Ah, but her book is to be so much more than a memoir, Amelia,” Berringsley cut in. “As I have told you, it is to be a framework for the spiritual development of the human race.”
Mr. Bridges and Mr. Gates were too busy savoring their dark meat to make any comment on this extraordinary statement. Mrs. Clifford cast a thin smile at Amelia Berringsley. “As always, William has been very generous. I am making good progress, thank you, Amelia.”
Mr. Berringsley was midway through a not-very-interesting story about his recent travels in London when they heard a commotion in the kitchen. “Off with you!” cried Mrs. Dowd as the back door slammed. “Not on my floor!”
Emily let out a gasp of horror. “Please excuse me,” she cried as she threw down her napkin and fled from the room.
Miss Berringsley seemed genuinely worried. “Why, whatever is the trouble?”
“I do hope you will forgive these domestic disturbances, gentlemen.” No one could have mistaken Mrs. Clifford’s laugh for natural mirth. “I am striving to teach my children the value of honesty, and of discipline, and at times such as these I fear my progress is slow indeed.”
“May I be excused, Mother?” asked Josie.
“You may not,” Mrs. Clifford retorted, and began a conversation with Mr. Bridges and Mr. Gates about the stock market that Josie couldn’t have followed even if she’d wanted to.
At length Emily returned. Mrs. Clifford cleared her throat. “Yes, Miss Jasper?”
“She’s not well, ma’am. I have put her to bed.” Emily reapplied herself to her plate with the mournful resolve of a prisoner at his final meal, paying no attention to the conversation between Mrs. Clifford, the Berringsleys, and their guests. The girls excused themselves at the earliest opportunity, and went up to check on Cassie. The child was sleeping fitfully.
“She vomited on the lawn.” Emily stroked the damp hair away from the little girl’s face. “Poor dear. I knew this would happen.” She sighed. “You know, Josie, that I have never been at ease in your mother’s presence, but today was the first day I found myself afraid of her.”
* * *
The day of truth came three days after Thanksgiving. Josie quivered with anticipation as her mother leafed through the first section at the breakfast table. They were only permitted to read the paper once Mrs. Clifford had finished, and it felt as if she’d never taken as long as she did today. Josie had told Emily of the newspaper pact, and her tutor was almost as eager as she was.
Finally, finally, her mother laid down the paper and went to her study. Cass climbed into Emily’s lap as Josie snatched the news section and hungrily scanned the headlines. “It’s true, all of it, every word . . . 125,000 soldiers mobilized across Europe . . . the Serbs retaking Krushevo . . . Kitchener and Italy . . .” Then she spotted Colonel Maitland, and, with an exultant laugh, read the dispatch aloud:
LONDON, Nov. 27.—Colonel Maitland of the Royal Naval Air Service jumped with a parachute today from an aeroplane which was 10,000 feet in the air. He landed safely.
Colonel Maitland has been experimenting with projected developments of the aerial service, and arrived at the point where it was necessary to determine whether an airman could land safely by parachute from such a height.
“Some one has to do it,” he said. “There is only one person I care to ask. I will make the attempt myself.”
It took the Colonel fifteen minutes to make the descent, but he solved his problem satisfactorily.
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