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Prima Donna
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Excerpt
Thursday, January 15, 1857 --Open to the Possibilities-- The fog crept in at four
o’clock. By seven it had blanketed the city so completely that the efforts of
the lamplighters went for naught—the streetlamps were completely obscured,
and no carriage lamp was bright enough to pierce the gloom. Beyond the misted
windows of the brougham, it was as if the world had fallen away. I could
almost believe my husband and I were the only ones left alive on this night,
and that the muffled echo of our driver’s shouts belonged to something
otherworldly, as if the nightmares that plagued me had seeped past my
watchfulness to follow me into my waking hours. But I
said none of this to Peter. I was so happy that he’d asked me to come with
him that I would have braved any element. I even—foolishly—harbored hope that
tonight might be the start of some new understanding between us. I
glanced across at him. His blonde hair was bright even in the darkness, and
he sat so stilly he could have been made of stone. I knew he was nervous—as
was I—and I looked out the window and said as idly as I could, “Look how
heavy the fog is. I wonder that Cullen can even see the road.” “We’ll
be late,” he said brusquely. “As
will everyone else, surely?” He
sighed. I
tried to lighten his mood. “It’s a perfect night for it, wouldn’t you say? It
already looks as if the world is full of ghosts.” His
wince was sharp enough that I felt it. “They aren’t ghosts, Evie, as I’ve told
you before.” Another
misstep. It seemed lately I made nothing but missteps. Quietly I said, “I was
joking, Peter.” “Perhaps
I shouldn’t have brought you after all. If you can’t be open to the
possibilities—” “I
can be open—” “You
promised not to be the investigator’s daughter tonight.” “And
I won’t be.” I leaned forward, putting my gloved hand on his arm. With a
twinge of dismay, I felt him stiffen beneath my touch. “I won’t disappoint
you. I want to see what you see. I do.” He
moved his arm so my hand slid away, and reluctantly I sat back again against
the plushly cushioned leather seat. He looked out the window. His voice was
soft as he said, “You know, Evie, he’s a miracle worker.” There
was something in his words that made me shiver. I moved my feet closer to the
brazier and told myself it was due to the damp and penetrating cold, and not
the disturbing reverence in my husband’s voice. It was a tone I’d been
hearing more and more often since his mother had died six months before, and
though I’d told him the truth—that I wanted to see what he saw, if only
because it would make everything so much easier—I could not hide my alarm
that he’d fallen into this fashion of spirit rappers and table tiltings; he
was a lawyer, after all, and I’d thought him too rational to believe in such
things. Still, I knew too how irrational grief could make one, how
all-consuming it could be. I should not be surprised now that he’d found
comfort in the idea of his mother’s enduring, communicating spirit. God knew
he had not looked to me for solace, though I’d hoped desperately that he
would. “We’re
here,” Peter said. How
he knew it, I didn’t know—there was nothing outside to show we’d arrived. But
then the brougham jerked to a stop, and the fashionably crenelated gothic
brownstone that was Dorothy Bennett’s house appeared in the mist before us
like some materializing spirit. I had not been to the Bennett mansion in some
time, as Dorothy had withdrawn from society almost entirely in the last two
years in deference to her invalidism. Now, the sight of it unnerved me. Every
window was lit, reflecting against the fog so the house seemed to stand alone
on the block, pulsing with a weirdly macabre life. It looked as if it
belonged to one of Mr. Poe’s strange and eerie tales. The
carriage door opened, and the frosty damp air rushed inside to displace the
heat from the brazier. It smelled oily and reedy, of coal smoke and the
river, and though I told myself it was an exaggeration, in that moment it
seemed as if the foundation of my marriage depended upon this night, and the
mist seemed conjured especially to lend atmosphere, to whittle away at my
rationality. I knew how much Peter wanted me to believe in this medium of his, and I was desperate enough to
ease our vague, unspoken estrangement that I meant to try. But my
upbringing worked against me—I was uncertain I had to the skill to pretend,
even for Peter. He
stepped out and turned to offer me a hand, and just as he did so, another
carriage pulled up, coming so suddenly out of the fog that I started. Peter
turned with a frown that grew deeper as a man pushed open its door and
stepped out. But for the paleness of his face above his closely groomed
beard, he would have blended into the night—dark coat and top hat, dark
beard, eyes I knew already to be so dark brown as to be nearly black.
Benjamin Rampling, my husband’s law partner. “What are
you doing here?” Peter asked sharply. “Why
shouldn’t I come? Haven’t I been to all the other circles?” Ben’s tone was
equally sharp. I’d never
heard them speak so to each other. Ben was not only Peter’s law partner, he
was my husband’s closest friend. He’d been to dinner at our house on many
occasions over the last year, and I’d never heard a harsh word between them.
It was obvious that they’d argued, though Peter had said nothing of it. “You said
you had too much work.” “That was
before I learned you intended to bring your pretty wife.” Ben gave me a
smile, a flash of white teeth in the shadow of his beard. “I own I was
surprised to hear it. A spirit circle doesn’t seem quite the fashion for you,
Evelyn.” I tried
to ease the tension with flippancy. “You think not? But you know how I enjoy
spectacle—and Peter assures me I’ll never see another like Mr. Jourdain.” “Ah yes.
Jourdain, Jourdain, Jourdain. How ever did we live without him?” Ben stepped
closer to my husband and put his hand on Peter’s arm, saying in a lowered
voice, “I must speak with you.” Peter
shook his head and pulled impatiently away. “Not now.” “When?” “Never,
if you mean only to repeat your nonsense from before—” Even in the darkness, I saw how Ben’s eyes flashed with
temper. “Peter, this is important. You must listen to me.” “I
haven’t time for your baseless accusations tonight. We’re late enough as it
is.” Peter held out his hand to me, but I hesitated. “Whatever
is the matter with you two?” I asked. Peter
looked grim. Ben flashed him a glance and said uncomfortably, “Nothing
really. A small argument.” It
seemed a large one, but I made no comment to that. Instead I said, “I wonder
what could possibly be worth jeopardizing Mr. Jourdain’s ‘miracle.’” When
Peter frowned, I explained, “I thought spirits didn’t care for disharmony.” “You’ve
been studying Spiritualism, Evie?” Ben asked in surprise. “Well,
no, but isn’t that what they say?” I eased as close to my husband as I could
with my wide crinolines and said with a conciliatory smile, “Come. Surely
your disagreement is not so important that you must shout it on the street.” My
husband barely looked at me. Instead, he said to Ben, “You’re wasting your
time. You won’t change my mind. Why not just accept it?” “Because
I can’t,” Ben said. “You know I can’t.” Peter’s
mouth tightened, and he pulled me with him up the walk to the stairs. I
glanced over my shoulder at Benjamin, who merely shrugged before he fell into
step beside us. We went to the door and Peter lifted the heavy bronze
knocker, which was very ornate, with its fashioning of leaves and berries. He
rapped it hard once, and then twice, and then the door was opened by a
butler, an imperious man who intimidated me immediately, though I thought I
hid it well enough. “Mr.
and Mrs. Atherton, Mr. Rampling,” he said, stepping aside. “Please come in.” “Good evening, Lambert,” my husband said, drawing me inside with the quiet authority of one who had never in his life doubted his place. No one would have known how angry he’d been only moments before. “How is Mrs. Bennett tonight?” “Quite
well, sir,” Lambert said, ushering us into a hallway crowded with paintings
and gilded furniture, and then closing the door and holding out his hands for
scarves and top hats and cloaks. “She’s waiting for you in the upstairs
parlor.” Peter did not wait to be shown the way, but led me up stairs so deeply polished they wavered in the flickering gaslight as if the surface were water. Benjamin followed closely and silently behind. On the second floor, Peter paused in the hallway before one of many closed doors. He was sweating, I noticed. The house was very warm; even in the hallway I felt the blast from the central heating vents laid in the floor. The wasteful rich, to heat even the hallways, I thought, before I remembered I was one of them. For three years I had been one of them, and still the habit of envy had never quite left me. Peter
opened the door with a flourish, gesturing for me to go before him. I stepped in, hesitating just beyond the door. Dorothy Bennett’s parlor was overwhelming even by Astor standards. It was quite large—my guess was that it spanned the depth of the house—and it had the appearance of being two rooms joined together without thought or concern for whether they matched. The carpet at one end was huge cabbage roses, at the other a geometric pattern. The furniture consisted of many lovely pieces that did not seem to belong together—a mix of gilt and heavy carving and delicacy. Paintings hung from gold cords to cover nearly every square inch of the rose-patterned wallpaper; some I recognized as old masters, though I hadn’t the eye to know if they were originals or copies. Every surface was covered with knickknacks and there was statuary throughout, some marble, some bronze, one or two standing freely while the others resided on tabletops or shelves set into the walls. Despite
all this decoration, my eye was caught by a large round table in the middle of the room. It was pedastaled and heavy, and in its center, two
large hands of candles were already
burning, sending smoke into the glowing jets of the gaselier above—a huge thing itself, styled as a
many-leaved vine, its sconces lily-shaped glass. “There
you are,” said a voice, and I turned to see our hostess reclining on a sofa
of mahogany and gilt, its arms carved to look like the tail of a great
leaping fish, while the legs finished the body, ending in a mouth open and
gasping for breath. It was a great, ugly thing, and upon it Dorothy Bennett
was a mound of pillows and silk and ribbons and lace, her plump face peering
out from it all like that of a wizened china doll. She was surrounded by a
cadre of young men. I realized they were her nurses when I saw how they
fussed with her pillows and tried to urge her to sip at a bright green
liqueur. She waved them all away and motioned us over, saying, “Come, come!
My dear Evelyn, how glad I am that Peter’s brought you at last, though I must
admit I’m surprised.” I reached
her and took her fat little hands, decked as they were with rings that had
long since grown too small, so her fingers puffed around them like unevenly
stuffed sausages. “Surprised? Why is that?” She shot
a glance at my husband. “I’d thought Peter had grown a bit disenchanted with
us lately.” “Not
disenchanted, no,” Peter said quietly. I
laughed. “Oh, hardly. He’s talked of nothing but your Mr. Jourdain.” “Well
now... that’s good. That’s very good to hear.” “I’ve
never said I don’t admire him,” Peter said. I said,
“There were never truer words spoken. The way Peter talks, one would think
the sun rises and sets upon this medium of yours. I confess I’m a bit nervous
to meet such a personage.” Dorothy
smiled. “But you mustn’t be nervous, child. Michel will put you at ease.” “He’s
quite a charmer,” Ben said as he stepped up beside us. His thick and
impeccably macassared hair gleamed darkly in the reflected gaslight. “God
knows I’ve not yet met anyone who wasn’t taken with him.” I could not help myself; Ben’s comment made me want to be
contrary, to be the one person not impressed by this Mr. Jourdain. I had to
remind myself that I was here to be persuaded by him, that Peter wanted to
share this with me, and for him I had promised to be—what had he said?—Open
to the possibilities. “You’ve
told Evelyn of our philosophy, I imagine?” Dorothy asked my husband. Peter
looked shamefaced. I supposed he had no wish to tell her that he’d refused to
tell me much at all since he confessed that he’d been speaking to the spirit
of his dead mother. It chagrined me still to think of how I’d laughed, how
certain I’d been that he was teasing me. What I knew of spirit circles came
from the articles in the newspaper about the New York Conference’s Sunday
meetings in Dodsworth Hall, where spirit rappings and table tiltings were all
the fashion; and the summaries given of lectures by the infamous Fox sisters,
who had brought spiritualism to the world’s attention. I had no patience for
such things, and I don’t suppose I could be blamed for mocking him, but I’d
spent the weeks since trying to apologize. I was thankful Peter had forgiven
me enough to bring me here tonight, though I was still uncertain why. He
said, “As busy as I’ve been, I haven’t had the time. She’s a heathen still,
I’m afraid.” “I
see.” Dorothy’s gaze was uncomfortably piercing as she looked at me. “You think
you can be open to the spirits, child?” “Evelyn’s
promised to put aside any doubts she might have, haven’t you, my dear?” Peter
turned to me with a stiff smile. I
nodded obediently. “I’m fascinated by what Peter’s told me. I look forward to
seeing it for myself.” “I’ve
faith Michel can convert you. Some say I’m too besotted to see, but I swear
my dear boy does work miracles.” Dorothy motioned to one of her nurses, a man
with dark, curling hair, and said, “Charley, go fetch them, will you? Now
that the Athertons and Mr. Rampling are here, we can begin.” As the nurse
hurried off, she turned back to us and said, “They’re in the library. They’ll
be here directly.” The other attendants leaned in on cue, two offering Dorothy an arm, the other reaching behind to help her rise, which she did, wincing in pain, and I looked politely away and it was then I heard the voices in the hall—high, excited voices—and the flurry of footfalls. Peter took my arm and jerked to attention; I felt the strain in him when a group of people—three men and two women—came into the parlor, and I found myself immediately drawn to one of the most arresting men I had ever seen. He was both delicately feminine and blatantly masculine—translucent skin, long eyes, high cheekbones and the fullest, most perfectly formed mouth I’d ever seen on a man. He wore his thick, chestnut colored hair tied back with a riband that matched his obviously expensive deep brown frockcoat. His vest was ostentatious and beautiful, embroidered with gold threads, and the extravagantly looped bow of his silk necktie was a blue that exactly matched his eyes; among its folds nestled a rather large sapphire and diamond pin. He
was not what I’d expected. I’d thought he would be more effete, or oilier,
something like the wretched quacks who had lined the sidestreets of lower
Broadway, hawking their cure-all elixirs and pawing at me as I walked past
them to my father’s office. But he was nothing like that, and I could only
stand stupidly as Peter called, “Jourdain!” and Michel Jourdain came away
from the others with a smile. As he approached, his gaze swept me with a
frank and direct interest that startled me. “My wife, Evelyn,” Peter said. Michel
Jourdain reached for my hand with beringed fingers. “Madame
Atherton,” he said—a smooth, melodious voice made hard to understand by his accent, which I couldn’t place.
“I see your husband didn’t exaggerate when he spoke of you, though he failed
to mention you had such remarkable eyes. I hope he’s bought you emeralds to
match them.” I wanted
to laugh at such obvious flattery. I doubted Peter had spared a single word
about me. But Michel Jourdain’s charm, and the way he looked at me, as if I
were the most fascinating thing in the room, worked as he no doubt knew they
would, and I was disarmed, though I knew better than to be so. I understood
Ben’s words immediately—it would be very difficult not to like this man,
though I knew his kind well enough. He reminded me of some of the pickpockets
and street boys who had paraded through my father’s office, promising
valuable information in return for a dollar, each able to turn a situation to
his advantage with a handsome smile and abundant charisma. I saw why Peter
was so taken with him—Michel Jourdain meant him to be. Copyright Megan
Chance 2008 T h
e Spiritualist
Also available as an E-book
CROWN
BOOKS/THREE RIVERS PRESS ISBN 978-0-307-40611-8 Copyright 2009 Megan Chance |
