by Devon Glenn
“But I didn’t tell you—” She was going to say anything, but before she could finish her sentence, Virginia returned from her goodbyes with the guests to find her daughter and Rahul alone in her séance room.
CHAPTER 3
A trap door
“What are you still doing here with him?” Virginia whispered to Dar, but Rahul heard her well enough. She turned to Rahul and gave him another affected smile. “If you’re in need of transportation, Mr. Kajaria, the trolley will be here any minute now.”
Rahul put on his hat, tipped the brim in Virginia’s direction, and headed out the door. Carl Digges was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ll need you to sign these papers before you leave,” he said, pushing the stack of parchment into Rahul’s outstretched hands.
“I’ll sign them, but I’ll need to read the terms carefully.”
“How long will that take?”
“How long will you be in town?”
“As long as it takes to get your signature.”
Rahul tucked the forms into his briefcase. “I’m afraid I must be going,” he said in a low voice. He tilted his head toward Virginia, who was peering down at him from above in anticipation of his exit. Rahul was happy to accommodate Virginia for any number of reasons: his tie was scratching his neck, his journey through multiple zones between Calcutta and Cape May had wreaked havoc on his sleep cycle, and—oh yes—he had no intention of signing the paperwork until he had enjoyed a proper holiday. “Shall I knock on your door when I’m ready to sign?”
Carl shook his head. “I won’t be spending much time at the hotel.”
“Then where shall I find you?
“I’ll be as far away from my sister-in-law as I can be. She’s a strange woman.” He glanced at the top of the staircase. “With even stranger friends.”
“You mean the medium? I thought she was very entertaining.”
“I wish I could say the same for her ghosts.”
Rahul agreed with him on that point. In India, he, too, had conjured the dead to comfort his friends, but he wasn’t sure he trusted the Other Side of Cape May. Shuddering at a memory he would rather not revisit, Rahul scurried out the door.
The trolley ran between Cape May Point and Cape May City—a sand toy of a train that scooped up salty breezes and ocean views as it rumbled across the peninsula. Rahul couldn’t see much from where he sat. In the dark, it was all smells and sounds. He noticed a single light shining from the third floor of one of the buildings in town. When he looked closer, he saw a prostitute lift her heavy bosoms and set them on the windowsill like fruit at the market. When she waved at him, Rahul curled his fingers at her politely, then looked the other way.
His thoughts drifted back to Dar, whose somewhat heated argument with him in the séance room had left him conflicted. It was a powerful woman who could intuit the desires of others to conjure the spirit that they most wanted to remember. But she lacked common sense. All the terrible secrets Dar uncovered in her séances had left her so desensitized to horror that she couldn’t tell the difference between a disgruntled ghost and an evil entity. Rahul sighed. He had said precisely the right thing to her, but he had said it at the wrong time.
Worse, Rahul had the unsettling feeling that Dar had heard him thinking about her. Sometimes other people’s thoughts reached him remotely, as if through a telegraph, but until tonight, he didn’t know that the signal could go both ways. If it was true, then perhaps she had liked what she heard. His heart pounded at the memory of her fingers touching her lips. What was it that she had planned to tell him before they were interrupted?
Rahul was not alone when he reached his room. He recognized the large gentleman with the handlebar mustache who was fiddling in his pockets, presumably searching for his keys. “I hope you have a good night, Senator Burns,” he said to him.
Horace paused at the door. “So, Rahul. How’s Angus these days?”
“Angus?” Rahul blinked. What was Angus doing in this conversation? “He’s well. He’s quite well. And you are his…?”
“Cousin.”
“He never mentioned…”
“No surprise there. He’s been so slow to respond to my letters that I was about ready to give him up for dead.”
“Then let me reassure you that he’s alive and still capable of holding a pen. Perhaps he has been busy.”
“Right then. Good night.”
How in the vastness of the British Empire was it possible for all these white men to be related? Rahul thought. But he couldn’t say he was surprised. Angus was as boorish as Horace and as crooked as Finn, except that Angus rolled his “A-R-R”s when he bellowed.
But, to answer Horace’s question, Angus Burns was still mismanaging the mill in Calcutta. Years ago, an advertisement in a British magazine had lured Angus to India with the promise of long afternoons spent drinking tea while the local population waited on him hand and foot. Rahul could still remember the idiotic smiles on their cartoon faces when Angus tossed the clipping in his face, cursing what he perceived to be a lack of truth in advertising. After years of complaining about said tea—as well as the heat, the food, the people, and who knows what else he had gotten stuck in his mustache—Angus announced shortly before Rahul’s departure that he was following Carl’s lead and selling his share in the mill, presumably to terrorize somebody else’s mill workers back in Dundee. Good riddance.
Rahul’s grandfather still cursed the day that he allowed Angus’s father to invest in his jute mill. It had seemed a fair trade at the time—his hand looms couldn’t compete with the power looms of the European manufacturers. But Mr. Burns’s idea of “fair trade” was to drink his tea and count his rupees while more and more Indian weavers fittingly spent their days making empty sacks.
Carl Digges’s father had lost interest in the jute industry years ago when the Americans erupted into civil war, and he discovered that he could make more money on real estate. But his share in the company, as well as his lack of enthusiasm for the industry, had passed to his eldest son after he died.
Rahul couldn’t believe his luck when both partners offered to sell their shares in the company back to his family with no strings attached—jute or otherwise. As soon as his father retired, the mill would be his and his alone.
Rahul jiggled the key in the lock and had one foot in the door when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he laughed, momentarily forgetting his irritation. Of course it was Lottie.
“Hello there,” she said, still unsure how to pronounce his name.
Rahul gently lifted the woman’s fingers to kiss the back of her hand, mostly so he could back away from her. “And good evening to you, Mrs. Digges,” he replied. “I’m enjoying my stay here immensely.”
That much was true.
“Is there anything else I could do for you to enhance your enjoyment?” Lottie asked. It was not an entirely inappropriate question for a hotelier’s wife to ask her guest, but something about the way Lottie’s fingers trailed across her collarbone as she spoke made Rahul press his back even harder against the door to keep his distance.
Then he got an idea. If Carl was to be as far away from Lottie as possible, then he should stay close if he wanted to extend his trip. “Why, yes. I was speaking to Miss Crossing this evening, and I was hoping to continue our conversation…”
He stopped when Lottie dropped her smile.
“With you and the other guests from last night,” he added. “I was hoping someone could show me around. Where do you recommend?”
Lottie batted her eyelashes. “The beach is beautiful this time of year.”
“Perfect. I’ll be at the front desk first thing tomorrow morning.” Rahul watched her swish down the hall. He was about to close the door when he heard a rustling above his head. He looked up into the vents, which shook as if a large animal were passing through—a
nd having a rough time of it. A few moments later, a young man appeared at the end of the hall, brushing soot off his pants as he exited the room nearest the staircase. Which was funny, because Rahul had nodded to the same man earlier that day as he was dropping his suitcases into the room directly adjacent.
Lottie galloped downstairs and rang the bell at the front desk. Rahul counted to five and then followed her down the stairs, pausing at the landing to watch the scene undetected.
“G’evening, Mrs. Digges,” the pimply faced desk clerk greeted her.
“Stewart,” she said conspiratorially, “who is staying in the connected suites?”
“Oh, you know, that young family with the twin girls,” Stewart said.
Lottie shook her head. “I’m not talking about that one. I mean who is staying in the honeymoon suite?”
Stewart flipped through his reservation book and frowned. “Horace Burns is in 333 tonight, and Clark Cummings is in 327.”
“Well, this is a surprise!” Lottie exclaimed. “Was Senator Burns present when Mr. Cummings checked in this afternoon?”
“I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“And did anyone remember to put the stepladder in Mr. Burns’s room? Mr. Cummings should be able to use the fireplace for leverage, but we don’t want a repeat of last week’s séance.”
Stewart gulped. “We planned to wait until tomorrow morning when we straighten the bedding and replenish the towels.”
Lottie released a long, drawn-out sigh. “Were you there when he booked his room?”
“Yes, Mrs. Digges,” Stewart replied. “He said he wanted the room because of the ocean view. He didn’t know about the crawl space, did he?”
Rahul had hoped that Lottie would be discreet in talking with the staff about the guests’ personal business, but Lottie apparently couldn’t help herself.
“Yes, I believe he did,” she said, her eyes twinkling at the look of shock on his face. “You read the article. The cat’s out of the bag now! Will you see to it that the stepladder is put in Mr. Burns’s room first thing in the morning?”
Stewart raised his eyebrows at the request. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
Rahul watched Lottie walk away before descending the staircase. When the lobby was empty, he approached the front desk, where Stewart was finishing his note for the housekeepers about the ladder.
“Oh, it’s you,” Stewart said with surprise. “I just spoke to Mrs. Digges about your plans for tomorrow. I’ve reserved a couple of tents for you on the beach.” Stewart’s voice cracked as he spoke.
“Very well.”
Stewart looked confused when Rahul didn’t immediately leave the desk. “Do you need anything else, sir?”
He might as well tell the truth. “I need to apologize to a woman.”
“I can call the florist to deliver flowers,” Stewart suggested. “Do you know which ones are her favorite?”
Rahul shook his head. “I have no idea. We only met this evening, and I’m afraid that I made a poor first impression. I was hoping to invite her to the beach tomorrow.”
“Wait right here.” Stewart walked to the bookcase that stood on the wall opposite the front desk. He pulled a volume from its shelves, blowing the dust from the cover before handing it to Rahul.
Rahul fingered the gold embossment that read, A Gentleman’s Guide to Flowers.
“Inside, you’ll find suggestions for choosing flowers that will suit the occasion as well as the intended recipient,” said Stewart. “In the meantime, I can have your calling card delivered to her home.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t have a calling card.”
From his desk, Stewart pulled a rectangular card that was small enough to fit in Rahul’s palm. In the center was a disembodied peach-colored hand holding a bouquet of flowers. Rahul chuckled. He was clearly not the intended owner of this stationery. “How will she know that this is from me?”
“Write your name on the front along with the date and time of the event,” Stewart explained, “in the blank space between the flowers and the birds.” He offered Rahul a pen. “And where will I be sending this?”
“To the residence of Miss Darthilda Crossing. She lives at—”
Stewart’s face blanched. “I know where she lives,” he interrupted. “But I should warn you that her mother is likely to intercept the note.”
Rahul could tell by the way Stewart glanced around the room as he answered that he could trust the young man to be discreet. “I hope Mrs. Crossing will come to enjoy the sunshine as well,” Rahul said smoothly. “I’ll be sure to address this to both of them.”
Back in his room, Rahul drew back the curtain and stared at the moon and the spray of stars that faintly illuminated the inky expanse of the sea. Dar’s mind must be as crowded and fraught with secrets as this hotel, he thought.
But the redheaded woman who had reconnected with her mother at the séance had brought Rahul’s own mother back into his thoughts with equal parts homesickness and dread. He pulled out a stack of letters that he had put off opening the moment he saw his mother’s handwriting scrawled across the front.
This trip was Rahul’s last chance to see the world on his own terms. The minute he returned home, he would have to take over his family’s jute mill, enter an arranged marriage, and lead the same respectable life that his father had. It’s not that he didn’t want the stability of a business and a family; he just didn’t expect it to happen all at once.
His parents had planned to send the paperwork to Carl by mail, but as soon as his mother broached the subject of marriage, Rahul told her that he would travel to America to collect the signature in person, and that he wouldn’t be back for several months. Rahul didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he ripped open the first letter and read his mother’s words:
I hope you are enjoying your trip to America. I admire your determination in securing your future career. But I miss you, and I’m dreaming of my future grandchildren. Not to worry! Your father has already placed a matrimonial advertisement in the newspaper on your behalf. You will undoubtedly be as pleased with your new bride as I am with your father! Your anxiety will disappear the moment you see her face, and by the time you read this, there will be many new faces to choose from.
Rahul closed the letter, stunned. He reached inside the envelope and found the small scrap of paper that his mother had clipped from the Bengal Times.
WANTED: Bride possessing beauty and charm. The bridegroom is from a respectable Marwari business family with plans to expand their jute mill. He is in good health and has his bachelor’s degree.
Rahul cringed. Although the ad was politely worded, it signaled in code to those who knew how to read it that his parents were looking for a girl with a large dowry. He supposed there was no way around the economics of marriage, but somehow seeing it in print made the prospect seem irrevocable and more urgent. Rahul turned over the paper and looked at the ads on the other side to commiserate with the other brides and bridegrooms who were marching in the same parade.
From his pocket, he retrieved the faded portrait he had shown Dar and stared at the girl next to him in the picture. Rahul had still been engaged to Priya on the night that she appeared at his bedside, shaking him awake. “You are a nice boy,” she said to him, and the touch of her fingers against his side sent shivers down his spine. “I’m sorry that we won’t be married after all.”
Rahul had bolted upright in his bed, grasping for her hand, but she was already gone. The next morning, he awoke to find his mother holding Priya’s mother in her arms, consoling the crying woman. “Priya came down with a fever,” Rahul’s mother explained when Rahul padded into the room. “She died this morning.”
Priya’s family had been friends with Rahul’s for generations, and there was no other girl that his parents trusted enough to bring into their home as their dau
ghter-in-law—not even with a matchmaker’s help. But as the years passed without Priya, the search became more urgent.
His parents had drafted a marital advertisement and hired a photographer to take his picture to submit to interested brides. When the photographer appeared on his doorstep to return the proofs, he thrust them into Rahul’s hands without saying a word and ran down the street. He didn’t bother to collect his payment. Rahul looked at the picture with curiosity. There was nothing wrong with his image—his hair was neatly combed, his eyes were clear and focused straight at the camera, and his lips were closed to conceal his slightly crooked teeth. But when he saw it, he yelled so loudly that a pack of wild dogs heard him across the street and howled back at him in response. There, sitting next to him in the portrait, was Priya, which was impossible, because Priya had been dead for years.
But whatever might have happened in his photographer’s darkroom, Priya’s disappearance from the picture in Dar’s séance room was proof enough that her soul had moved on, and Rahul was free to run blindfolded into the arms of a stranger. Not true, he tried to remind himself. My parents have assured me that they are vetting the young women very carefully.
But without a persistent ghost to blame for his matchmaking problems, he was forced to confront the trepidation in his own heart. The advertisement Rahul’s mother sent was in last month’s newspaper. For all Rahul knew, his parents had already found him a match. He put the letter aside and fingered the other letters in the stack. It had taken a long time for them to cross the ocean, and by the time the letters reached Washington, DC, Rahul had already left for Cape May. The previous innkeeper must have collected the lot of them and forwarded them all at once. Any one of these envelopes might contain a photograph or a description of his future bride. If he opened the letters, he would know his fate. And it meant that he would have to forget about the woman with the otherworldly beauty and the supernatural gifts.
Not tonight, Rahul whispered to himself. I’m on Brahma’s time now. He thought of the story of King Kakudmi, who asked Lord Brahma, the god of all creation, to help him choose one of several suitors for his daughter. The king waited in Brahma’s realm for the deity to offer his wisdom, but Brahma was happily listening to music and wouldn’t be disturbed. By the time the god responded to him, so much time had passed on Earth that all his daughter’s suitors and their earthly descendants were dead.