by Kate Danley
But it was not this couple who captured Clara's attention. No, it was the man who followed them behind. As he entered, it felt as if all the air had been taken from the room. She had seen him once before, upon the stage in that vaudeville house, but that did not prepare her for what it was like standing next to him in the flesh. Clara felt the blood rush to her face and chest as a strange heat washed through her body.
This unwanted, visceral response seemed a betrayal of Thomas. And yet, she could not stop it. A warmth, a silence, a moment of stillness seemed to descend upon the room as Wesley Lowenherz became the only thing she could see. She tried to push this sensation away, but she had no more power than a person who tries to stop the room from spinning after too many glasses of champagne.
It had been like this with her Thomas.
One look, and he had claimed her heart.
And now, this Wesley Lowenherz.
Watching your sadness is worse than dying. Do not die while you are still alive, my love. Do not fear to live and love again. The words rang in her memory, spoken in a dream by the love of her life, but also from the very real lips of this very real man who stood before her. Something about him claimed a part of her she did not think she was ready to give away again.
But off the stage and out of the greasepaint, he was more dashing than she ever thought possible. If anything, the stage had made him seem smaller and less than his own reality. He was still tall and slim with broad shoulders, square jawed and heavy browed. He still had that beautiful head of wavy, auburn hair that caught the light so magically. But his skin was so clear, she could tell he did not partake of a single drop of liquor. There was a rarified power in his movement and a gentlemanly way in which he carried himself. A soulfulness to his brown, dark eyes. They were soft and warm, as if incapable of an angry glance. They fixed upon Clara and she was unable to break from their gaze.
Wesley stepped closer and she could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. Clara was aware of someone talking, of introducing people to her, but it wasn't until Horace said, “And may I introduce Mr. Wesley Lowenherz?” that she heard anything.
Wesley reached for her hand, which she gave gladly. His touch was electric, and the sensation of his lips upon the back of her hand was as intimate as if he had brushed across her mouth instead.
"My deepest condolences for your loss," he said.
Those words brought Clara back into the room and broke the spell. She was aware once more of her clothes of mourning, of the figure of a grieving widow she cut, and of how, until this very moment, she expected to spend the rest of her life as such. But the human heart has its own plans and, inexplicably and unwarranted, his spirit and manner seemed to be a pinprick of light which cracked her world of darkness. She nodded, choking down the urge to correct him, to tell him that for the first time in a long time, things might not always be as they seemed.
Instead, she merely said, "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Horace introduced her to the others. Hilda Nero, Violet's mother, and Norman Scettico, the scientist that Violet had spoken to her about. But Clara barely paid attention. Instead, she was entranced by this Mr. Lowenherz, following him with her eyes as he sat down next to Marguerite, as he spoke with Violet, as he greeted Clifford. What is going on? Clara wondered as she fought with herself and lost. Why am I behaving like a besotted schoolgirl?
She could almost imagine Thomas laughing at her.
The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the dinner gong.
Horace rose to his feet and said, "If you all would follow me into the dining room, I believe dinner is now served."
Gilbert opened the double doors between the sitting room and the dining room. An elegant table was laid with service for five courses. Horace took the head of the table with his son taking the other end. Clara felt the color rise to her cheeks as she realized she was seated across from Mr. Lowenherz.
After the drinks were poured, Horace lifted his glass and declared, "To the life beyond!"
They all lifted their glasses in agreement. Or almost all.
Norman Scettico placed his glass back onto the table without joining in the toast. "I hope that we shall all keep an open mind so that we might discern between the truths and fictions that we see tonight."
Horace gave him a laugh. "I am sure that your cunning eye will pierce through any charlatan's trick, but since we have here as our guest one of the greatest mediums society has ever known, I am sure that you can sit back to enjoy the evening, safe in the knowledge that there is nothing more to discern, for the truth has already revealed itself."
The table politely tittered, but Norman gave a cold glare as he bit his tongue and kept from answering back. His sip from his wine glass was large.
As the soup was brought out and served, Mr. Lowenherz turned to Clara, casually enquiring, "I am acquainted with the history of our other guests, Mrs. O'Hare, but do not know what brings you to our circle tonight."
She placed down her spoon, feeling the eyes of the entire table upon her. She felt her mouth go dry and prayed that she not seem a fool before them. "I had a midnight visitor the other day who led me to Horace... I believe she is one of the other world. Upon calling on Horace, it seemed natural that I should join your merry group this weekend to see if perhaps some answers might be gleaned as to who she is and why she is in such distress."
Mr. Lowenherz looked at Clara with even greater interest, which she found she did not object to in the least. "Truly? I would have guessed from your attire you would have wished to be reunited with a loved one recently passed."
Clara swallowed, strangely not wanting to dissuade his attentions, but knowing she must acknowledge his observation. "I am sure that we all might wish to speak again to those who have gone before us, but that is not what brought me here tonight."
"May I ask who it was who left?"
"You are the medium. Perhaps you should tell me," Clara laughed, but not sure anymore if she wanted to hear Thomas's words spoken by this man.
"Do you believe in an afterlife, Mrs. O'Hare?" he asked.
She found herself unable to answer at first, fearful that she might lose her composure. Finally she managed to say, "I hope there is. I hope that we shall all be reunited with those we hold dear. This other figure that appeared to me seemed to make me think that there is life beyond. But I no longer feel as though I understand what it looks like or what it means. Perhaps it is the answers to that very question which causes me to come here today."
Mr. Lowenherz smiled at her warmly, as if to encourage her to have faith. But then the sharp voice of Mr. Scettico cut into their discussion. "Whether there is or is not makes no difference. The question is whether man is capable of speaking to those who have passed. I have yet to see someone who is actually capable of such a feat."
"Perhaps you shall be surprised tonight," said Mr. Lowenherz. "There is, after all, a first time for everything."
"I find the fleecing of mourning widows and children to be the lowest form of humanity, Mr. Lowenherz," he replied.
"Then you and I are of one mind," said the medium.
Norman opened and shut his mouth with irritated annoyance, bothered that Wesley did not seem to understand that he was the villain Norman was so violently against. To point it out would border upon outright rudeness, and Clara got the sense that Norman was not the sort of man to take such an outward stand. So, instead, he glowered into his soup, as if willing that the bits and pieces within would cause Mr. Lowenherz's eyes to be opened to the fraud that he most assuredly was.
Clara, on the other hand, felt hope for the first time. She felt as if this man, this Wesley Lowenherz, might hold the answers. She wondered what it might take to have him come to her home. She thought of that for a moment, cutting quite the heroic figure as he called up the spirits and vanquished them from her house. She thought of how grateful she would be and how, perhaps, he might allow her to express that gratitude. She took another sip of wine, sure that i
t was the drink and exhaustion which caused her senses to stray.
"Well," said Mr. Lowenherz finally, breaking the awkwardness of Norman's outburst. "After dinner, we shall see the test of my talents and hopefully you shall all be reassured that this evening was not a waste.”
Horace slapped the table. "What is taking these courses so long? I say we skip straight to the pudding and get it over with."
The sharp, shrill voice of Violet's mother, Hilda, cut through his enthusiasm with her mannered rule. "Of all the ridiculous ideas. To force one's guests to speed through their evening meal all for the sake of meeting up with spirits that have nowhere better to be. They shall be hanging about for all eternity. I should suppose they would be quite grateful to have someone to talk to every now and again. Speed through to the pudding, indeed."
Horace immediately calmed himself, patting his lip with his napkin. "Of course, Hilda. My enthusiasm got the better of me."
"Just look at poor Violet! Withering like a flower in the sun with barely enough sustenance to keep her going. All of this because you want to talk to some ghosts? We are lucky this Mr. Scettico is here to point out the folly of your ways, Horace."
"Now, Hilda, you were once just as entranced as I am with these matters. Just because you were taken for a fool once does not mean that all mediums are scam artists, out to part you from your fortune."
"I am sure I provide myself as quite a target. Grieving for the loss of a son and then to have someone come along and take advantage."
"I am sure that Mr. Lowenherz is above such dastardly deeds. He is well aware any trickery on his part will cause us to prosecute him with every ounce of the law, aren't you Mr. Lowenherz?"
Wesley practically choked on his dinner. He looked up, eyes watery from coughing. "Quite," he assured.
Violet picked at her food, but was not eating any of it. "It would be lovely to speak to Victor once more."
"Was that your brother?" asked Clara politely.
"Indeed," said Violet. "He passed when I was quite young."
"Maybe he can tell you where that father of his hid your inheritance," jested Clifford. His face was beet red from the wine and it was plain to see that he was not in a good frame of mind to be making such jokes.
But Marguerite leaned forward, with interest. “Really? I was unaware that it disappeared.”
“This is not polite dinner conversation,” muttered Hilda, sawing her knife through her mutton.
“Quite impolite, Marguerite,” Clifford slurred. “Although, wouldn’t it be funny if we learned your husband and Violet’s papa were shacked up at the seaside this whole time, living off of all that wonderful Nero money?”
“You’re drunk, Clifford,” Marguerite stated. She did not even attempt to hide her contempt. Violet stirred the food upon her plate and pretended that he had not said anything so uncouth.
"And what of you?" Clara asked Horace, trying to shift the focus of the conversation delicately. "Who do you seek out?"
Horace waved her question away. "Oh, a little of this. A little of that. It is the last great frontier, isn't it?" He pointed at all of the animals stuffed and hung in the room, from the polar bear on one side to the ostrich on the other. "I have visited every corner of the globe. I have faced the fiercest animals known to man. And yet, here is one beast I cannot tame. One beast that I cannot slay. I might be able to choose between life or death for each of these creatures, but there is the great hunter in the sky who stalks me and one day will take me down with a blow to my heart or a crack to my skull or perhaps a fit of pneumonia or an infected hangnail. One way or another, death will come. What I have learned from hunting, though, is that you must know your enemy if you want to avoid him. You must know his methods and his habits if you want to stay one step ahead. That's what I hope to find by piercing the veil. Answers! Answers to this life, to this mystery, to death! I want to know the things that will help me sidestep the Reaper until the days become too much of a burden and I look forward to sitting down with him over a bourbon. That's what I hope."
They all quietly mulled over his words. Then Norman spoke up. "You do realize there is no 'Reaper'..."
Horace became red in the face and started to sputter. "Who invited this joy killer to our weekend anyways?" He shook his finger in Norman's direction. "You'll best keep your opinions to yourself. If I say there is a Reaper and he is haunting me, then I'll be damned if some know-nothing who has never stared down the barrel of danger and laughed in its face will tell me he knows what's what. You keep your opinions to yourself, sir, and I shall make sure to give you a wide berth."
They spent the rest of the evening eating in awkward silence. Any attempt at polite conversation fell lamely to the side and the speaker felt that perhaps they were better off not having said anything at all.
Finally, the last course was served—an excellent dessert of blood oranges and brandy—and Horace pushed himself back from the table. "Now, if we have all eaten and drunk our fill, or at least eaten and drunk to the satisfaction of Hilda here, since she is now our resident expert on other people's stomachs, we can retire to the other room and let the festivities begin."
They all stood and began walking towards the parlor.
As Gilbert began to clear their places, Horace turned back and blustered. "Gilbert! Tell the house staff to get home to their cottages. They can clean up this mess in the morning."
"Sir?" he asked.
"You heard me right. You stay in case we need anything, but I'll not have this one," he pointed at Norman, "saying that the noises we hear were them banging around, or worse that they were in cahoots with Mr. Lowenherz here. And I, personally, don't want them wandering in and interrupting our proceedings. You tell them all to get out now."
"But the storm, sir," said Gilbert, pointing at the rain which was starting to fall.
"Well, tell them to leave immediately so that they don't get caught in this mess. Hurry up now! And I don't want to hear another sound from you until we leave the séance room, do you understand?"
Gilbert bowed low. "As you wish, sir."
11
They went into the parlor. The heavy, velvet curtains had been drawn so that not even the moonlight could enter. Though there were gas lamps upon the walls, they were turned off and the room was only lit with flickering candles dripping from brass candelabras. The room had dark flooring and dark furniture and a dark organ that appeared to never have been played. The face of a wild boar sprang out of the shadows and Clara stifled her instinct to scream. It was only a trophy from one of Horace's conquests. But just as she was about to think how she wished that Thomas was here to reassure her, Wesley kindly placed his hand upon her elbow. She looked up at him in surprise. His gentle eyes met hers, and he seemed to say, without words, that he would let no harm come to her, that there was nothing to fear. She thought how strange it was that he knew, somehow, that she needed this simple gesture.
In the middle sat a round table with a red velvet cloth draped over it. Eight seats circled it, waiting for the guests.
The eeriness of the room seemed not to affect Horace. He strode in and plopped himself upon a chair. "So, is this where I sit, eh Wesley?"
Clara and Marguerite exchanged glances over this broach in protocol—Clara with embarrassment, Marguerite with amusement. Mr. Lowenherz cleared his throat, but did not correct the man.
"Indeed, Lord Oroberg. In fact," Wesley motioned to the entire company, "Please, find the place at the table which makes you feel the most comfortable. There are resonances in the spirit world which will become in tune with your harmonics. Your energy will create a chord of harmony to invite your loved ones through."
Norman sniffed. "In that case, might I request a chair in the hall?"
Clifford drunkenly slapped him on the back. "Now, now, sir. Are you in league with this man? Wanting a chair outside to pull the table strings and ring the tambourine? You almost had us fooled by your misanthropic ways, but I am on to you now, sir." Clifford sat
down, his legs spread wide and patted the two seats beside him. "I believe the spirits are telling me that I should have Marguerite and Mrs. O'Hare within easy reach."
Clara looked at poor Violet. The only betrayal of her feelings was a small hiccup of breath. Clara took the girl by the shoulders and gently guided her over to her fiancé. "I am quite sure that the spirits would be much happier to have you seated beside your bride-to-be."
Violet gave her a tight but grateful smile. Hilda's mother sat on the other side of her, as if daring Clifford to behave badly in her presence, and Marguerite sat Norman next to the man, using her scientific friend as a buffer between her and Clifford's unscientific approaches. Unintended, Clara found that the only seat which remained was beside Wesley's empty chair. She sat down and wondered how the rapid beating of her heart might affect the appearance of spirits.
As soon as everyone was seated, Wesley walked around the room, extinguishing the candles so that only one candelabrum remained. He picked it up and brought it over, placing it in the center of the table. He sat down. "Now, if we could all take hands."
He took Clara's hand in his. His hand was soft and warm, and she wanted to believe that as he adjusted his fingers, it was not just comfort that caused him to caress his thumb gently against her skin.
"Take hands? This is the oldest trick in the book. You'll move the table with your feet and start dancing on a tambourine with your toes," said Norman in a superior tone.
Wesley shifted uncomfortably, most likely to keep from saying something he would later regret. Instead, he pointed out: "I allowed each of you to pick your seat. If I had trickery in mind, I would have reserved my seat where my wires and mirrors were close at hand. Now, if we can begin..."
Norman harrumphed.