Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
I want to tell Gray what Miss Emerson said—all of it—but I don’t get the chance because Madame Paix arrives with her husband and brother.
We head out to meet them, and I take a better look at Mr. Parsons.
Okay, yes, he’s handsome. Very handsome, if you like the type, which is not mine.
He’s tall with a fine-boned patrician face and that “aloof” manner, as Miss Emerson mentioned.
Parsons makes me think of Gray. Not that there is the slightest physical resemblance. But I’m remembering what Miss Emerson said about the attraction of “handsome and aloof” men. They can be catnip to women, who all want to be the one to thaw the ice.
Is that why I find Gray so attractive? He is my kind of good-looking—unique and intense—and he definitely gives off those chilly vibes, firmly positioned behind his wall of ice. Except I’ve never been fond of that type of guy. I like easy guys, laid-back and open.
I don’t think I’ve stumbled into the trap of the unattainable man.
I fell for Gray after his wall thawed and I saw my kind of guy behind it, because he can be laid-back and open when he’s relaxed and comfortable.
Pair that with a quick mind, a relentless curiosity, driving ambition, and a delicious recklessness, and that’s my catnip.
Yes, Parsons is a handsome and distant man, and now that I see it, I also see how Lady Adler is quick to engage him in conversation and Lily—the maid who had no time for me—is right there, making sure he has everything he wants.
Since I can’t talk to Gray alone, I spend that pre-séance time observing.
Gray is caught up in conversation with Lord Adler.
Or, more accurately, he’s trapped listening to Lord Adler.
With Gray, that often happens, and I think he usually doesn’t mind it—saves him from standing awkwardly on the outskirts—but tonight he keeps glancing my way, as if there’s something he wants to tell me as well.
I slip away from Lady Adler, Miss Emerson, and Isla and ease over to his side.
When Gray glances my way, I murmur, “Forgive the interruption, sir. I only wanted to know whether there is anything in particular you need me to do during the séance.”
“Try not to fall asleep?” Lord Adler says. “And if I do, pretend you do not notice.”
The lord seems to be in a better mood tonight, which might have something to do with the empty whisky glass in his hand.
“I am very sorry for the loss of your maid,” I say.
“She was already gone, so it hardly makes a difference to us. Lady Adler still needs to break in a new one.”
I force my expression to stay neutral, and he seems disappointed that I don’t join him in laughing.
“Excuse me, Lord Adler,” Gray says. “I do need to impart a few final instructions to Miss Mitchell.”
He steers me out of the room and into the adjacent one. Then his shoulders slump.
“Dear lord, that man is a tactless boor,” he says, and I stifle a laugh.
“I thought you were trying to say you had something to tell me. You actually just wanted rescue.”
“I did. I have always thought Lord Adler to be, as you might put it, a grumpy old man. Tonight, he is in his cups and talkative, and I thought that would help. I could speak to him about Nellie. But I believe I like him better when he is grumpy. Once his tongue loosens, it says all the things he apparently knows better than to say otherwise.”
“In vino veritas.”
“Hmm. I asked about Nellie, and he said she was pretty enough, but Rose is prettier, and then he started comparing the … attributes of his maids, right down to the—” Gray cuts himself off and takes a quick hit of his whisky.
“The parlormaid.”
“Yes. He then started to comment on Nellie’s complexion, saying it was rather dark and what that could mean about her father and, subsequently, her mother’s morals.”
I glare toward the parlor. “Did he not notice who he was saying it to?”
“I do not think he cares.”
I glance toward the parlor again. “When he talked about the maids…”
“Do I suspect he is doing more than talking about them?” Gray tilts his head.
“After our last case, I am not certain I shall ever trust my judgment there. I will only say that I have been subjected to that sort of conversation before—where a man is very clearly ‘dallying’ with his maids. That was not the impression I got. It was…” He clears his throat.
“I do not quite know how to say this. Sometimes men speak of women in … an unseemly manner.”
I widen my eyes. “Unseemly? Heaven forbid.” I lean in and whisper, “The word you want is ‘objectification.’ And we know they do it. Sometimes behind our backs and sometimes to our faces. Like when a guy converses with my boobs.”
Gray turns the most delightful shade of scarlet.
“Hey, you started it,” I say. “But I know what you mean. He was assessing the attractiveness of his maids. Or, more correctly, how attractive he personally finds them. In a manner that is more sexual than objective appreciation.”
He reddens again, and I throw up my hands. “Victorians. I can’t even say the word ‘sex’ in the most matter-of-fact way without you blushing and stammering.”
“I am not stammering.”
“Sometimes I’m tempted to just say it over and over until you get used to it.”
“Yes, yes, you are amused by how old-fashioned and out-of-touch we seem to you.”
I soften my smile. “Not old-fashioned. Not out-of-touch. Just very Victorian. And, believe me, there are plenty of people in my day who’d blush, too.
We are the descendants of Victorians and Puritans.
But back to your point, what you’re saying is that Lord Adler seemed to be just casually assessing them as a normal part of male-to-male conversation. ”
“To be clear, despite being male, I do not do that. I consider it disrespectful.” He pauses. “I will admit that, with other men, we may comment on a woman’s appearance, in a more general way.”
“Like saying Jane Smith looks smashing tonight.”
“Yes.” He glances at me. “Is that objectifying, as you put it?”
I shrug. “If it is, it’s a very mild and innocent form of it. Women do the same. We notice attractive people. That problem comes when you only see people in terms of how they could—or couldn’t—satisfy your appetites.”
“Yes, and that is what Lord Adler was doing. He assessed the maids in two ways: whether they did their job and whether he found them pleasant to look at. For Nellie, she excelled at the former and was adequate at the latter.”
“So he notices all of them, in that way, and while it doesn’t seem he’s acting on it, we need to bear that in mind.”
“We do.”
“Good. Now, Miss Emerson proved a far more entertaining conversationalist than I expected. A quick wit and a sharp eye. She made a few observations you might find interesting.…”
I’ve never been to a séance. Well, not unless you count the ones we had during sleepovers when I was a kid.
I am intrigued, though, by the elements that have passed down from this era to my own, from educated adults trying to contact the dead to twelve-year-olds playing with a Ouija board.
That’s one of the truly fascinating things about witnessing history.
Seeing how much of our world is tethered to the past. The undercurrents of Victorian life linger in everything from séances to our attitudes toward sexuality.
We often feel as if these things have been around forever, and certainly people have always tried to speak to the dead and there have always been prohibitions when it comes to sex, but how we practice both seems to come back so much to the Victorians.
Here I am, at the dawn of modern spiritualism, when the traditions are being established.
Being established in America, that is, with Britain just starting to follow.
In a few decades, it’ll be a wild time, with spirit cabinets and ectoplasm, and other elements we laugh at in our modern world.
But here, at the start, it looks very familiar.
We are seated at a table just big enough for the nine of us.
Madame Paix tells us to leave our hands on the table, and I know that’s mostly so no one can accuse her team of manipulating objects under the table.
That table, though, has a black cloth that falls to our laps, which means they absolutely can communicate under it with nudges and such.
I remember hearing how some mediums had amazingly dexterous feet, allowing them to manipulate objects that way.
I’m sorely tempted to “drop” something so I can peer under the table.
But it’s not my job to prove Madame Paix is a fraud.
In fact, it would impede our investigation, turning her team into hostile witnesses.
I don’t need to see Oz behind the curtain. Or under the tablecloth. I need to wait and see what “Nellie” tells us.
Will it be complete fiction, suggesting Miss Emerson is right and the ghost story was an educated guess? Will it be misdirection, the killer sending us on a wild-goose chase? Or will it be the truth, the killer unable to resist showboating?
In my childhood séances, we held hands. Here, we just keep our gloved hands on the table. No physical contact, please—we’re Victorian. I resist the urge to smile at that.
I note that the lights are out and the heavy drapes pulled closed.
Candelabras light the room. I’d always presumed that was for atmosphere, but now I see the practical side.
The room is dim and illuminated only by flickering light.
While I can make out white gloves on the table, honestly someone could slide a hand from their glove and I’d be none the wiser.
I recall, from things I’d read in my time, that early séances were often held in the dark.
That definitely made things easier for the fraudulent medium.
While they’d hold hands—or clasp their neighbor’s wrist—after the lights went out, the medium or her accomplice could then “adjust” until their neighbors were both gripping the fraudster’s one hand.
That left the fraudster’s other hand free to do things like rapping or waving a rod with a luminescent end to act as a “spirit orb.” So while I know the lights are lowered for more than atmosphere, I’ll give Madame Paix credit for not plunging us into total darkness.
“I am seeking contact with Nellie Carmichael,” Madame Paix says, her voice surprisingly firm. “Nellie Carmichael, daughter of Betty, maid to Lord and Lady Adler. Nellie Carmichael, please attend. We are waiting for you.”
I bite my lip, the name repeated in that crisp tone reminding me of students being summoned to the principal.
Nellie Carmichael to the office, please. Nellie Carmichael, please report to the office.
Madame Paix repeats variations on that. Nellie’s name and identifying factors, with none of the wispy pleading I expect.
After a few moments of silence, Madame Paix says, “I do not sense her. The veil is very firmly drawn.”
“Keep trying,” Lady Adler urges. “She wanted to speak to Dr. Gray. Tell her he is here.”
Madame Paix nods. “Nellie Carmichael, we understand a tragedy befell you, and you seek justice. You requested Dr. Duncan Gray. We have brought him here. He wishes to speak to you.”
Silence. Madame Paix tries again and then shakes her head. “It is difficult to explain, but sometimes I sense the rustling of the veil, as if someone is pressing against it, waiting to cross, needing only more coaxing. I am not getting that tonight.”
“Duncan?” Lady Adler says. “You speak to Nellie.”
Even in the dim light, I see the panic in Gray’s eyes. I resist the urge to say I’ll do it. Lady Adler won’t accept—or appreciate—any substitution.
“Miss Carmichael,” Gray says finally. “You … asked for me. Dr. Duncan Gray. I…” A glance my way. “My assistant and I are consulting detectives, as I believe you know. We are both here tonight to hear what you have to tell us.”
Another look in my direction, and I take the cue.
“Miss Carmichael,” I say. “This is Miss Mallory Mitchell. I know what happened to you was horrible, and I want to help. We both do. Dr. Gray and I. We’re here for anything you can tell us.”
Silence. I look at Madame Paix, who shakes her head, but Lady Adler says, “Go on, dear. Keep trying.”
“If you know who did this to you, we will find them. Even if you do not, please don’t let that stop you from speaking out. Anything you can tell us will help. Nothing is too small. Please.”
Madame Paix closes her eyes, as if concentrating harder. Finally, with an exhale, she shakes her head. “It is no good. She isn’t there.”
“Do not be hasty, Stella,” Freddie says. “Give her more time to respond.”
Parsons snaps at his brother-in-law. “If she says she cannot make contact, she cannot. It happens.”
“I only meant to counsel patience. The dead do not always—”
A thump against the window. Everyone jumps, Gray and Parsons leaping to their feet. A voice sounds, muffled by the glass, a woman’s voice, high with something like fright. Parsons is at the window first, yanking back the curtain while Gray is moving fast for the door.
I hesitate, waiting for Parsons to say what he sees so I can tell Gray. Instead, he peers wordlessly into the night. And then someone shrieks outside, the sound cut suddenly short, and I’m hiking my skirts and running for the door.