by Kate Danley
"Come where?"
"I will send my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Violet Nero, to call on you tomorrow and invite you along, just so that you know things are on the up-and-up."
"Please, Lord Oroberg..."
"Horace! You must call me Horace!"
"Horace, please tell me what it is that is going on."
"Why, a séance, of course!"
"A séance?"
"Of course!"
"Why would I want to attend a séance?" Clara asked, a strange thrill coursing through her body.
Horace sat down before her once again. "Because you saw a ghost. An honest to goodness ghost. A ghost who led you here. To me! Don't you want to know why? There are many of us who have had such encounters, people who long for death and yet are not allowed to cross the veil from this living world. Our time may not yet have come, but we feel sympathy with those who have gone before us. They reach out to us almost as much as we reach out to them. I have brought together such friends to explore our experiences. I have hired a medium of excellent repute to come to my home in the north country. So many have said that they have felt and seen things in this particular house of mine. I must know! I must know if it is true!"
"But I saw the ghost in my house."
"So, we need to see if it is just that house, or if you are able to see ghosts everywhere. And if you are able to see ghosts anywhere... well... you would have my deepest admiration and regard."
"But I do not know if I want to know if I can see ghosts everywhere," she protested.
"Of course you do! We are all searching for answers, and you, my dear, are the closest that any of us have come. The ghost led you here. On this day of all days! Not a week before or a week later, but today! Not twenty-four hours since I employed this medium. It must have been for a reason. This is the only reason I can think of! You must come spend the weekend with us. Say that you will!"
Clara sat for a moment in silence. True, she had only come for answers about the girl in lilac, but Horace's excitement was contagious. What if she did have some gift? What if this medium could somehow teach her? What if she did not have to wait until death to see her Thomas again?
It was this final thought which caused her to say, "I will look forward to meeting your daughter-in-law, Miss Nero, tomorrow, and if we feel a spirit of friendship between us, I shall indeed look forward to a pleasant weekend in the north country meeting this medium of yours. I thank you kindly for your invitation and hospitality."
Horace raised his fist in the air in triumph. "Bully! It shall be a splendid time for all!"
9
Clara sat in her front sitting room. The mid-morning light was pale, but pleasant. Not so dim that it demanded the gas lights be lit, but not so bright that the room became uncomfortably warm. The sound of each passing carriage filled her with both excitement and dread. What would this Violet woman be like? Would they be instant kindred spirits, or would she cause Clara to regret her impetuous decision? Clara played with her wedding band, remembering a time when meeting strangers was a joy. She wondered how it came to be that she became so fearful of her life, how it became so normal to hide indoors. Strangely, it was now her home that became the most unsafe of all, with midnight visitors of the other world variety.
A carriage stopped in front of the house. Clara willed herself not to run to the window to catch a secret glimpse. She heard the front door ring and Mr. Willard's steadfast steps calmly walking down the hall. She heard the door open and murmuring voices. She adjusted her skirts and tucked her hair nervously.
The door to her sitting room opened and Mr. Willard announced the guest. "Miss Violet Nero."
In walked the soon-to-be daughter-in-law of Horace Oroberg. She was a wan creature, almost more bird than human. Her frame was as delicate as a wren. Her large eyes were dark and sunken and her pale skin seemed to almost have a bluish tinge. Her brown hair was pulled back and hung in sausage curls. Though her face held the age of one close to twenty years, she stood no taller than a twelve-year-old girl and her physical development seemed to have ceased at that age, too.
Clara rose. She felt a twinge of instant sympathy for this frail and sickly woman. Who knew what tragedy already struck her. Clara held out both hands in friendship. "Miss Nero. It is a pleasure."
Violet took Clara's hands in hers and allowed Clara to lead her to the seating area. Her voice held the slightest touch of French, as if she held her vowels like candy upon her tongue. "Please, do call me Violet. My father-in-law tells me we have such a great deal in common. I feel that we are to be dear friends."
Violet sat down, perching politely upon the chair, as if frightened to take up too much space. Clara poured milk and sugar into the cups, then filled them both with tea. She passed a saucer to Violet.
"So, you are engaged to Lord Oroberg's son?" Clara asked.
"Indeed. Maman has been friends with the family for a great number of years and says that I am so lucky to have made such a match."
Clara politely sipped, unsure of the way in which Violet spoke of her fiancé through the eyes of her mother's advice.
"But you shall meet Clifford this weekend!" Violet exclaimed, snapping Clara from her thoughts. "Please, do say you will come. It shall be frightfully dull to endure an entire weekend with no one to be my companion besides Maman."
"It sounds like quite a fascinating opportunity," said Clara. "Tell me, who will be joining us?"
"Well, there is Maman and I. Clifford and his father, whom you've already met. Marguerite Matson, who is quite the modern woman. We are not terribly well acquainted, but she has known Clifford since his university days. I hope you will not think poorly of her. When her husband disappeared, she was the center of a great deal of scandal and gossip, but Clifford assures me of her good character. Marguerite is quite the skeptic, though, and has insisted upon bringing a scientist named Norman Scettico to point out the supposed error of our ways. The medium who will be guiding us on our journey is a man named Wesley Lowenherz. He is known in all of the spiritual circles as someone who is quite able to talk to anyone beyond the grave."
At the sound of Wesley's name, she felt the blood drain from her face. She prayed that Violet did not remark at how remarkably pale she had become. Horace had said it was quite a coincidence that she sought him out the moment she did. And how strange a coincidence that of all the mediums in the world, this medium, this Wesley Lowenherz, was the spiritualist he employed. She had been tortured by her cowardice to speak up in that vaudeville house, and now she had been invited to spend an entire weekend in Mr. Lowenherz's presence. Her teacup clattered on its saucer and she placed them both down upon the table. "It sounds like splendid company."
"I am sure it seems quite odd that Horace would be so quick to invite you along, but I promise you shall find our merry party most pleasant."
"It does seem rather strange to go somewhere so far away from town with people I've just become acquainted..." Clara confessed.
Violet nodded, this time seemingly to be the one with the sympathy, which struck Clara as quite a different turn of events. She spoke, "Each of us has endured great tragedy. We have lost loved ones too soon. Each of us wishes to speak with them, to find this connection. Horace is insistent that this home is a place where the veil is quite thin. In fact, Mr. Lowenherz was the first to suggest the location and the company." Violet stared into her cup, almost embarrassed to broach the subject with Clara. "Horace stated that you, yourself, had an experience of a troubling kind."
Clara did not know how best to reply. "At the risk of sounding like quite a madwoman, I saw a strange figure in my chambers the other night and do not know what to make of it."
Violet leaned forward. "And that is why you must come! If you were seeing this figure here, where there is almost no psychic activity at all, imagine who you might see if you join us in this other place! You must come! Please, tell me that you will."
"It could have all been nothing more than a trick of my mind," proteste
d Clara.
"And so you must come to find out if it is just your mind or something more!" Violet whispered conspiringly, "Mr. Lowenherz is the most sought after medium in polite society. His rates are quite beyond your means, or even mine."
Clara did not feel it polite to point out she had seen him just the other day in a line-up at a vaudeville house.
Violet continued, oblivious to Clara's hesitation. "It is only through Horace's intervention that we even have access to him. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and you really must come to see if he has answers for you."
Clara was so close to agreeing. There was something about Violet which made Clara immediately trust her. She had such an open vulnerability to her, an innocence that seemed to ask Clara to do the same, and a promise that whatever Clara had seen or endured, it would not be mocked or ridiculed. So, Clara finally dared to ask, "Tell me, have you ever seen anything unworldly before?"
Violet was still for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, when I was a young woman, I thought I saw someone in my room. That vision has stayed with me for all these years and I wonder what he was trying to tell me. I have sought out answers from so many different flim-flam men and frauds. But this Mr. Lowenherz, I have confidence in him. Marguerite has sworn that I am wasting my time and energy again, and this is why she has insisted upon bringing Mr. Scettico, but if there is even a possibility that Mr. Lowenherz can give me answers, well... I cannot think of a better way to spend a few days. And if he is as big a fraud as Marguerite warns, then at least I shall have a lovely weekend in the country with my fiancé and friends." She leaned forward and grasped Clara's hand. "I do hope that you will come, Clara, for I feel as if it was fate which brought us together."
Clara could not cause that hopeful face to fall, and so she found herself replying, "Of course. Of course I will be there as your guest and will look forward to an entertaining weekend of new friendships and adventure."
Violet suddenly seemed alight with joy and excitement. She clapped her hands and declared, "Splendid! I shall send a carriage round for you Friday afternoon!"
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Clara found herself strangely looking forward to this surprise holiday. She felt as if saying yes to this kind invitation was a step forward. If her isolation was causing her late husband sadness beyond the grave, she would try to live. She would try her best to bring him joy once again.
10
The carriage rocked gently along the muddy path. A low mist hung over the boggy fields and the sky was darkening threateningly. Horace Oroberg's house in the north country was two hours by rail and then another hour by carriage ride. Despite the luxury in which Clara traveled, she was exhausted and looked forward to arriving at her final destination.
The horse's hooves clomped across a long bridge over a steep bank. Clara looked down and saw that the river below was already high. The storm clouds must have broken upstream already and caused the rain to gather. From the speed of the water, she could see that the storm would be violent.
Far ahead, she could see the country house. The lights shone warmly from the windows. She wondered how she would appear arriving in such a splendid place, her in her mourning clothes as all the others gathered to reach out to dead ones. She thought of the assumptions that others would make about her, so sure that it was her husband she wished to reach. She wondered, as she stared at the house, why she had not sought him out in the spiritual realm before. Perhaps it was her own skepticism of such things, of charlatans who preyed upon the weak and grieving. And yet, here she was. If it had not been for her own strange experience in her little house upon the square, she never would have ventured into such passings. She hoped that this was not some ill-fated ruse. She could not think of any reason someone might go to such effort and expense to swindle her. Indeed, her new home and her pension were the only wealth she had, and while comfortable for a woman living alone, they were not sizeable enough to be attractive to a con artist. She knew her only defense would be to keep her wits about her and to keep herself from falling under the spell of proceedings.
The carriage pulled up to the house and as the driver removed her baggage, Horace's butler, Gilbert, emerged to lend his hand as she climbed out and gather her things.
"Good to see you again, Gilbert," she said.
"Ma'am," was all he replied.
She walked into the home. Immediately, she was struck by the sheer masculinity of the decor. She had not thought that there might not be a Mrs. Oroberg, but now it dawned on her that perhaps Horace's overtures of friendship might possibly tend towards a friendship she was not entirely comfortable with. Had he invited her here as a guest of his daughter-in-law to have an opportunity outside the bounds of societal propriety? She hoped that she was jumping to wild conclusions.
Gilbert led her through the front hall filled with hunting trophies. There were heads of antelope, zebras, and buffalo hanging over every door. He ushered her into the library where tusks of ivory framed the fireplace and Zulu spears adorned the walls. Skins of tigers and leopards were scattered upon the furniture like blankets. The foot of an elephant served as the base for a table. A great bear rug spread out before the fire. Clara thought it no wonder that Horace believed this home seemed so connected with death. There was death at every turn.
The door opened and a man entered. He was a rakish figure. His curling brown hair was carelessly styled in such a way that she could tell his valet fussed over it for hours. He wore his dinner coat and tie with the ease of a man used to finery. There was a lazy look to his eyes, a curl to his lips of insolent knowing, a swagger to his stance that showed he was a man not used to hearing the word "no". He carried a glass of scotch and threw it back the moment he looked at her, his eyes never leaving her face. He strode across the room. "Mrs. O'Hare! My father has told me so much about you!"
He took her hand in his and raised it, his lips lingering on her fingers far longer than politeness would allow.
"I believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your fiancée," she replied, removing her hand from his.
He took his empty glass and decided the best place for it would be the mantle directly behind her. But rather than comfortably walk around, he leaned into her, so close that his body almost touched hers. "Pardon me," he murmured, his mouth dangerously close.
"Oh, leave the poor widow alone," came a voice from across the room.
Clara looked up to see who this savior was. It was a woman about her age. She wore a tightly bodiced gown of blood red, which held her figure in a perfect hourglass. The high-necked daywear had been exchanged for the scooped neckline of the night. It fell from her shoulders revealing her elegant carriage and enticing bosom. Her black hair was large and loose, pinned up in the Gibson style that Clara had seen on the front cover of a Life Magazine only a few weeks before. Her high chiseled cheek bones framed her shocking blue eyes, eyes that looked upon the world with bored detachment.
"Whatever Marguerite wishes, she gets. Those are the rules, aren't they?" Clifford asked as he backed away from Clara with knowing humor, as if delighting in how uncomfortable he made her for that moment. He leaned over and planted a kiss upon Marguerite's cheek. The woman appeared utterly uninterested in his affections.
"You have a fiancée now, Clifford, and you will need to behave yourself if you hope to weasel your way into her dead daddy's dowry."
"Such dreadful accusations from you, Marguerite! How dare you insinuate such awfulness!" he replied in mock horror.
She took a sip from her wide champagne glass and peered at him over the rim. "Am I wrong?"
"I should have married you."
"Your money is not green enough for my taste," she replied. She held out an outstretched hand to Clara and daintily gripped her fingers. "You mustn't pay us the slightest bit of attention. Clifford and I have been school chums since he learned how to look up a girl's skirt. He's all bark and, pitifully, no bite."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Clara, feeling adr
ift in this sea of inside jokes and politics.
Marguerite looked upon her, taking in her attire in such a way that Clara felt she should apologize for not making the mark. "Black. I suppose you are in mourning for someone near and dear, so near and dear you would allow yourself to be led into this lion's den of poor manners and bad taste."
"I confess, I do not know entirely what I am getting myself into. I was invited here by Violet..."
Marguerite rolled her eyes and flung her curved body upon a chair. "Oh, shy little Violet. So anxious for a friend to share in her hare-brained adventures. My condolences."
"Really, she seemed quite kind..." said Clara.
"The fact you are here is a mark against her 'kindness'," stated Marguerite.
"Now, don't go scaring off such pleasant company," said Clifford. He touched Clara's chin and tilted her head towards the fire to get a better look at her features. "Fine company and fine to look at, too."
"Clifford, you had better find yourself on the other side of the room before Violet and that mother of hers get here."
He sighed. "They are all the way on the other end of the house preparing the room with the medium."
"Oh, that's why I came in. They are done and on their way."
Clifford ran over to the other side of the library and planted himself at the farthest window.
"Coward," Marguerite laughed, downing her drink.
At that moment, the sound of voices filled the hallway. Clara was unsure whether to sit or stand, to go towards the door or remain where she was. The entire evening had her flustered and everything was sixes and sevens.
The door opened and in came Horace, with Violet's delicate hand upon his massive forearm. Behind them came a woman that Clara could only suppose was Violet's mother. She had darker hair than her daughter, but shared the same large, permanently-startled eyes. Her hair was gathered upon her head in a loosely held bun. Her wasp-like waist was cinched into an hourglass, which took some doing for this woman was almost skeletal with skin hanging loosely from her bones. Her face was pinched, as if the smell of sour milk lurked beneath her nose. She was escorted by a man with mutton chop sideburns and a humorless, shrew-like face.