Chapter 15
The next morning, I’m finishing up my coffee and eating a piece of Ms. Fernsby’s steaming mushroom quiche when my phone dings.
Chloe: Can I stop being a priest for one minute?
Me: Go for it
Chloe: Is this FUCKING REAL??? *Lizzie and August’s selfie*
Me: Guilty?
Chloe: Wow! If I didn’t have to clean baby poo off my blouse and plan out my Sunday sermon, I’d call you now. Promise you’ll spill
all the tea when you get back.
Me: I promise.
Chloe: ? And don’t forget about the labyrinth. Trust the path, friend.
I smile, send her a few selfies of me and Heathcliff from the park the other day, and ask her about baby Asher. I sip my coffee—I
have a full day planned with Heathcliff, and Ms. Fernsby says her “friend” can meet with us this evening.
Over my second cup of coffee, I let out a breath of gratitude. Between Henry and Chloe and my department chair, Patrick, I
have so many good friends supporting me from abroad.
After a full day of chasing Heathcliff, I collapse onto the parlor couch the second we walk through the door.
Why had I thought bringing him to the National Portrait Gallery was a good idea? He constantly wondered why “nobody smiles
in their picture,” and he said their ruffled outfits looked “stupid.” By noon, I gave up and just let him run like a wild
thing around a pocket park playground. Then we did some shopping, and I spent too much money on him for souvenirs, including
a British edition of Harry Potter. We’ll start reading a chapter every night because I’m not about to raise a Muggle.
I’m relaxing with some lavender tea and Blood Ties, my sore feet up on the parlor coffee table, when August texts me to see if I want to go on a Jack the Ripper tour tomorrow evening. I shush my Victorian widow’s brain
as I text back agreeing to go. She whispers advice in my ear like a fusty great-aunt, and sometimes I just really want to
ignore her.
I’m flattered by August’s continuing attention, but I do wonder why he likes me. Maybe it’s just our writer’s connection.
Or maybe there’s just a strange novelty to cheering up a weepy widow.
I can’t think too much about all the whys of our friendship. Instead, I drum my fingers on my teacup, scouring my mind for something else to worry about. Mirabel is
of course at the top of the list.
It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from her. I wonder if Henry’s getting anywhere with the subpoenas and how long they
take. I grip my teacup more tightly, as I’m suddenly nervous about what Steel Magnolia hurricane might be brewing in South
Carolina.
I can’t stop thinking about Mirabel sitting in that chair with a big sun hat, cigarette clenched between her teeth, pistol
poised to shoot another groundhog. She doesn’t give up. She’s fiercely guarding a piece of her past, and she’s a fighter.
I hope Henry knows what he’s dealing with.
By evening, I’m riding in an Uber with Ms. Fernsby toward Peckham to meet her friend.
Ms. Fernsby looks very cute with peach lipstick and a little red cap on her head. She’s excited, speaking breathlessly and
fidgeting with her floral-patterned purse during the ride. “Now, Darcie’s lived in this neighborhood for three decades. It
was quite dodgy for a good while, but now these young people moved in with their expensive coffees and little toy dogs and
wine bars.”
After passing a string of the pricey wine bars, we’re dropped off near a tall, very old row house covered in ivy.
“She’s a bit eccentric,” Ms. Fernsby whispers, opening a low wrought iron gate for me, “but she can help you now.”
“How?”
“You’ll see what I mean.”
Darcie opens the door and briskly kisses Ms. Fernsby on the cheek.
She’s a short, heavyset woman in a drapey floral dress with black boots, hair dyed an unnatural but interesting shade of red. Very Raggedy Ann. About Ms. Fernsby’s age, she looks like an eccentric great-aunt.
Darcie takes my hands in hers, but not in a kindly manner. She maintains her grip while scrutinizing me over tortoiseshell
readers. She says nothing while I mutter an awkward greeting, squirming under her gaze.
Ms. Fernsby and I follow her into a drawing room worthy of any Anthony Trollope novel. A large, quirky antique chandelier
hangs from the ceiling. Dark mahogany bookshelves line the walls. Leafy William Morris wallpaper patterns cover every square
inch of exposed wall, and I count no less than five senior cats lounging about the room. Darcie shoos them off the furniture
before Ms. Fernsby and I sit down. One glares and hisses at me as Darcie leaves the room.
She returns soon with a slightly tarnished silver tray of brandies and hands us each a snifter.
“Now, Annabel told me nothing about you, Lizzie, except that you’re a widow.”
“That’s correct,” Ms. Fernsby says. “And I’ve told her nothing of you, Darcie.”
“Oh!” Darcie smiles proudly, settling back in her creaky chair and pushing her glasses farther up on her nose. She takes a
sip from her snifter. As I take a sip from mine, I notice it’s antique Waterford. I’d doubt anything in this room is less
than one hundred years old, including, maybe, the persnickety cats.
“By day, I input data for the National Health Service. But Ms. Fernsby brought you here because I have a gift for communicating with
the dead.”
“I don’t understand. You’re a psychic?”
“I never advertise it. I’m not one of those tarts you pay by the hour. I never take money. It’s only a gift I offer some of
my friends for closure or peace or whatever it is they need.”
“And she’s the real thing,” Ms. Fernsby says, leaning over to me. She smells like lavender powder and brandy. “Last time she summoned my grandmother
Doris here and we heard things that no one except family could have known. She even knew about Uncle Christopher’s syphilis
infection. We never talked about that.”
“Acquired it in the navy, Doris told me,” Darcie says, topping off Ms. Fernsby’s brandy. She nods in tipsy affirmation.
I’m speechless. I’ve always thought the psychic stuff was silly, but the Victorians were obsessed with spiritualism. Ghost
photographers like William H. Mumler tricked many a grieving widow into believing that her beloved late husband could materialize
in an image. Other intelligent late-Victorians like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fell deeply into the spiritualism and ghost photography
trend while grappling with loss. My chest tightens even now as I think of Doyle seeking out psychics to connect him to his
beloved son Kingsley, who died after the Battle of the Somme in World War I.
“If you’re not comfortable with it . . .” Ms. Fernsby mutters weakly.
“No . . .” I hesitate.
I stare at a geriatric Siamese cat on the carpet licking her fur. If I was an authentic Victorian widow, I’d be sitting in
a room like this, trusting someone like Darcie to summon Philip’s spirit. Obviously, this isn’t the kind of thing I would
have sought out on my own. But there just isn’t a good reason not to do this.
“Alright, I’m game. Let’s do it.” I finish my brandy in a gulp.
Darcie closes the heavy dark red curtains and takes us to an Edwardian-era table in the corner of the room. Ms. Fernsby trips
lightly over one of the ancient hissing cats.
“Are they staying?’ she asks irritably.
“Yes, their moods often change with the entry of spirits. The Egyptians were well aware of this.”
After dimming the drawing room, Darcie lights a large, heavy candelabra and sets it in the middle of the table. She refills our snifters and settles herself in her seat, then takes in a deep breath through her nose and exhales.
“This really is like a séance,” I admit, rather excited now. “Very atmospheric.”
“It’s not actually necessary. I could sense the spirits if we were sitting in Starbucks over milky coffees. But incense, candlelight—the
ambience helps.”
We’re quiet as Darcie closes her eyes.
Ms. Fernsby’s lipsticked mouth twitches excitedly.
As much as I try, I can’t believe in ghosts. I can’t believe that Philip’s spirit is pressing on the veil somewhere close.
Nonetheless, I try to stay open-minded and surrender to this exercise.
Outside, lamplight breaks through drapery cracks, casting long shadows across the old books and patterned wallpaper. The cats
grow restless; a fluffy Persian walks across the frayed floral area rug and bats at the tabby resting on the floor. The calico
leaps back up onto the sofa, clawing at the worn upholstery, and stares back at me in the semidarkness. The room smells like
dry rose petals, stale dust, and musty pages. With only the candelabra and antique glasses on the table before us, I’m transported
to a time of corsets and tarot cards, where, despite new steam engines and phonographs, there’s a yearning for the unknown.
“Hmmm . . .” Darcie murmurs.
“What?” Ms. Fernsby whispers.
Darcie silences her with a hand wave.
For a brief second, I think—I desperately want Philip to surprise me and break through my unbelief. Can he please surprise me? My mouth dries, and my heartbeat races. My
head swims a little from the brandy.
Philip.
“Hmmm . . .” Darcie mutters again.
She frowns. “I don’t like this gent.”
“Who?” I whisper hoarsely. There’s no way she wouldn’t like ghost-Philip.
Her penciled eyebrows furrow behind her glasses.
“Annabel, he says he appreciates the way you’re taking care of the house.”
Ms. Fernsby gasps. “Archibald . . . Lord Routledge!”
“Yes,” Darcie says irritably.
The Persian hisses from behind me.
A chill zips up my spine. Oh god. If this vintage balderdash is real, maybe this is the moment where we’ve opened a door to
something evil. It seems like a crucial moment in a typical PBS period drama.
Agatha Christie’s The Sittaford Mystery comes to mind.
Shit. We’re going to end up dead. Victorian twins resembling those little girls in The Shining are going to appear to Heathcliff back at the row house.
They’re going to ask him to play with them and lure him someplace
dark and dangerous.
“Should we be afraid?” I whisper, a little panicky.