Chapter 2
Two
It took Owen a moment to adjust to the stifling gloom inside.
Caleb lit a candle and led the group through a narrow entry hall.
In the flickering light, Owen noted the stone-flagged floor.
Recalling Henry Pell’s grisly hobby, he hastily sidestepped a rust-colored stain before entering a small parlor.
“Wait here.” Caleb’s tone was eerily flat; the circle of candlelight illuminated only his head, making it appear severed from the rest of him. “I will return for you when Madame Seraphina is ready.”
He shut them in the room, taking the candle with him.
The only light came from gaps in the heavy drapes.
Owen made out looming cabinets along the wall—and twitched when he saw glinting eyes and spread wings.
He took a breath, reminding himself where he was.
Squinting, he saw that the wings had not moved.
The stuffed raven was but one of the poor creatures in the room forced to spend eternity as decorative objects.
Owen turned his attention to the familiar faces of the group.
There was Mrs. Elmwood, a stout matron with hooded eyes and improbable ebony ringlets.
Standing beside her was Mr. Khan, who operated Hatcherds, the village bookshop.
The bespectacled fellow was peering into the cabinets, his cloud of white hair glinting in the dimness.
Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, who ran the Briarbush Inn, chattered nervously with the butcher and his wife.
The dashing blond draper, Mr. Duffield, who was a friend of Gigi’s, completed the group, along with the brawny blacksmith, Mr. Keane, who sported an eye patch.
“Isn’t this thrilling?” Mr. Duffield, known as Duffy, whispered.
“It feels like we are in a gothic novel!” Gigi said giddily.
“Without a doubt, this feels like a work of fiction,” Owen said.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” his sister scolded. “Madame Seraphina could be the genuine article. If she can put us in touch with Rose—”
A shriek made everyone jump.
“Did you feel that?” Mrs. Elmwood gasped, clutching her cheek.
“Feel what, ma’am?” Mr. Khan asked.
“A c-cold hand. I felt it touch my face.”
“Now, now,” Mr. Khan soothed. “It was likely just a draft.”
“It was a hand,” Mrs. Elmwood insisted. “A spirit must have passed through and touched me.”
On that unsettling assertion, the door opened to reveal a young girl. Like Caleb, she wore plain and somber garb. She looked no more than ten, with guinea-bright curls framing her angelic face. She regarded them with guileless blue eyes.
“I am Tansy.” Her voice had a sweet lilt. “Madame Seraphina will receive you.”
She led the group through another narrow corridor.
This one had maze-like turns and was filled with a thick haze of incense.
By the time they entered a room, Owen was all abroad and had to blink to orient himself.
They were in a parlor at the back of the house, he guessed, though the space had been dramatically transformed.
Velvet smothered the windows, shutting out the world beyond.
The fire in the hearth and scattering of candles flickered, throwing up shadows on the walls.
A cabinet and screen occupied one corner; a chandelier with glowing amber shades hung overhead.
Below it was a table draped in black cloth, ringed by rosewood chairs.
One chair stood out from the rest: upholstered in black velvet, it faced the door, its back to the fire.
Standing behind that chair, Caleb gestured at the other seats.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said.
Everyone took a seat. Owen positioned himself directly across from Caleb and next to his kin.
As they waited in hushed silence, the scent of incense grew stronger, almost intoxicating.
The light dimmed so slowly that Owen wondered if his eyes were playing tricks.
His heart thumped, and he had no idea how much time passed.
“Madame Seraphina arrives,” Caleb announced.
Several guests jerked in their chairs as the medium separated from the shadows.
She had the lithe build of a ballerina, and her every movement commanded attention.
Her charcoal gown clung to her slender form, the wide skirts eerily noiseless as she glided over.
A tiny hat was perched at a rakish angle upon her chestnut hair, and a short veil of black lace reached the tip of her nose.
When she arrived at the table, Owen rose out of habit. He saw a flicker behind the veil, and her lips, full and pink, parted slightly. Behind her, the flames in the hearth gave a sudden leap, limning her silhouette with a fiery glow. Several people sucked in their breaths.
The medium spoke, her voice sultry and confident.
“Welcome. I am Madame Seraphina. Please, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”
With a graceful sweep of her gloved hand, she indicated that Owen should sit.
He did so, leaning back in his chair and studying her.
He noted the discreet patch on the sleeve of her gown and the neatly mended seam of her black lace glove.
Despite Madame Seraphina’s grand manner, she wasn’t above taking economies.
Caleb held out the chair, and she sat like a queen upon her throne. Her serenity had the opposite effect on her visitors, who squirmed in their seats and exchanged anxious looks.
Mrs. Elmwood broke the silence. “Welcome to Chuddums, Madame. I am—”
“Eleanor Elmwood, yes. You were expected.”
When Mrs. Elmwood’s eyes widened, the clairvoyant’s lips took on a knowing curve.
Owen felt a strange stirring inside him.
“May I ask what brings you to our village?” Mrs. Elmwood managed.
“I was summoned.”
“Summoned?” Mrs. Elmwood’s voice wavered. “B-by whom…or what?”
“That remains to be seen,” the medium said. “I am but a vessel, carried forth by spiritual currents. Those forces decide when and how they wish to reveal themselves, using me as their conduit.”
Mr. Khan’s brows climbed toward his cloud of hair. “You do speak to the dead, then?”
“Departed souls choose to speak through me,” she corrected. “Think of me like a bridge between the earthly and spiritual realms.”
“A bridge,” Gigi breathed. “Did a specific spirit summon you to our village, Madame? With a message perhaps—”
“The unseen realm is riotous. A tumultuous and constant din. The noise, the sheer volume of messages”—Madame pressed a hand to her temple and gave an artful shudder—“can be quite overwhelming. The focus required to channel a message from one side of the veil to the other comes at a great personal cost. Indeed, I am still recovering from my last sitting, when I helped a mother speak to her son who had fallen in battle.”
Owen’s pulse hammered as an image blazed in his head. His fellow soldiers scattered like poppies against the snow. He heard the rat-tat of rifles firing from the cliffs and men crying for their mothers and the home they would never again see—
“May I prevail upon you to exercise your talent, Madame?”
Mrs. Elmwood’s desperate question pulled Owen from the past.
“I would be happy to provide compensation—”
“A talent such as mine is not for sale,” Madame Seraphina declared.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Elmwood said hastily. “I did not mean to imply—”
“However, if I am able to facilitate communication, a donation to the cause of spiritualism would be acceptable.”
“Then you will try?” Mrs. Elmwood said eagerly.
“Who do you wish to contact on the other side?”
“My husband, Gerald.” The matron’s gaze glistened. “He passed away two winters ago.”
“My condolences. Do you have an object of his?”
“Yes.” She removed a handkerchief from her reticule. “This was Gerald’s favorite.”
“Tansy, fetch the spirit bowl,” Madame Seraphina said.
The girl obeyed, returning with a wide basin made of glass. She placed the vessel carefully in front of the medium. Owen saw that it was filled with water.
“Now I will prepare the handkerchief,” the medium said.
She took her time folding the linen into a neat square.
Holding it in her left hand, she drew it through the air like a falconer summoning a bird to her glove.
She was mesmerizing, and even Owen—who knew a fraud when he saw one—found himself holding his breath.
Her entire body began to rock along with her arm, and the air thickened with incense and anticipation.
Owen felt a whisper of air overhead. He looked up as gasps rose around the table. The chandelier had begun to sway. Gently, back and forth, the lights flickering in the amber shades. Then it stilled.
“They are here.” Madame Seraphina’s voice had an uncanny new resonance. “The spirits honor us with their presence today. Ask what you wish—speak now.”
“Gerald?” Mrs. Elmwood’s bottom lip quivered. “Are…are you there?”
“I will employ the spirit bowl to invite his presence.”
Madame waved the handkerchief over the bowl three times. Owen’s skin prickled when wisps of smoke began rising from the water’s surface. Everyone leaned forward to get a better look—then shrank back when the medium spoke in a voice as deep as a man’s.
“I am here, Eleanor.”
“Oh, G-Gerald.” Mrs. Elmwood’s voice hitched. “Is that you?”
“Yes, my darling. It is me, Gerald. Your departed husband.”
“My darling was his endearment for me,” Mrs. Elmwood breathed. “It is you, Gerald. Oh, how I have missed you!”
“And I you, my darling.”
“Tell me, my dear, are you content where you are?”
“As content as I may be without you.”
“You left so suddenly,” Mrs. Elmwood said in a broken whisper. “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
“Nothing you do not already know. You hold my heart, Eleanor, and always will. Take care of yourself…and our cat Fenny.”
“Fenny.” Mrs. Elmwood clutched her hands to her breast, her eyes overflowing. “That was your pet name for Fenwyck.”
“Aye, keep an eye on Fenny,” the medium intoned. “For he is digging up gardens when you turn your back.”
“I will,” she said reverently. “You needn’t worry about Fenny—or me, my dear husband.”
The medium clenched her jaw. “I cannot keep the channel open much longer,” she bit out in her own voice. “Make your farewells.”
“Goodbye, Gerald,” Mrs. Elmwood said. “Rest in peace until we meet again.”
Madame Seraphina suddenly convulsed. The handkerchief fluttered onto the table as she fell back against her chair in a graceful swoon. Caleb and Tansy rushed to her.
Mrs. Elmwood shot to her feet. “Is she all right?”
“The communion drained her vital energy,” Caleb said. “She must recover.”
Tansy waved a vial of smelling salts beneath the veil, and the medium stirred.
“The spirits,” she said faintly. “They are gone.”
“I don’t know how to repay you, Madame Seraphina.” Mrs. Elmwood’s smile was tremulous. “For the peace you have given me this day.”
“It is my gift.” Flanked by her assistants, the medium rose slowly. “And my burden.”
“Please, you must accept a donation—”
“Speak to Nell. She deals with such material matters.”
Madame Seraphina gestured wearily at the young woman who had entered the room. She was bespectacled, with a pleasantly square face. Her straight brows added to her studious air.
“Now I must go—” the medium said.
“If you could wait a moment, Madame!”
Gigi’s skirts swished as she hurried over, followed by Xenia and Evie.
Owen caught up to them as Gigi made the introductions.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, my ladies,” the spiritualist murmured.
Despite her apparently spent state, her curtsy was deep and elegant.
“We were most impressed by your performance,” Xenia said.
“And we wish to consult with you on a private matter,” Evie added.
Gigi nodded. “We were hoping that you might pay us a visit—”
“Before any plans are made, however,” Owen cut in, feeling like a man throwing himself in front of a speeding locomotive, “we would like assurances that your, ahem, skills will prove of genuine benefit to our concern.”
“Who are you, sir?” the medium demanded.
Owen’s face heated. In his rush to protect his sisters, he’d forgotten to introduce himself.
“This is my brother, Lord Owen Harrington,” Gigi said brightly. “He is a cynic. Feel free to ignore him.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I consider myself a pragmatist. One who does not invite strangers into his family’s private affairs”—he shot his sister a pointed look—“without due consideration.”
“Do you doubt my talent, sir?” Madame Seraphina’s inquiry was cool.
“I do not have sufficient information to form an opinion,” Owen said bluntly. “About you or your talent. I have not even seen your face. Tell me, do you make a habit of hiding behind a veil?”
“During a séance, excessive stimulation must be avoided. It compromises the clarity and quality of the channel. I shield my eyes to clear the path of inner sight.”
The woman has an answer for everything.
Owen lifted his brows. “We are not in a séance now, are we?”
For an instant, he didn’t know if she would take him up on the challenge.
She lifted her chin—and, with a bold gesture, her veil.
Topaz eyes glittered at him, knocking the breath from his lungs.