Chapter 15 #2
“Of old Lord Routledge? Goodness no, don’t be daft!” Darcie scoffs.
Ms. Fernsby tears up as she speaks. “If you are there, I do wish you could see our Mabel. You’d be so proud. She’s doing so
well. She’s making good grades this second time at uni. She’s working so hard at the coffee bar. She wants to be a solicitor,
and she will even if she’s a bit late in the game. She’ll make an extraordinary one.”
It’s quiet again. The Persian cat relaxes, settles on the rug. And yet all the cats glare at a fixed point in the room. The
candelabra flames flicker. Admittedly, it’s a little strange.
“Did he hear me?” Ms. Fernsby asks desperately.
Darcie wrinkles her nose, pushes up her glasses. “He did. He’s glad for all that. But he does want you to know that he would like his old upstairs suite repainted butterscotch yellow and to use a new draper for the room. This time, Buford and Sons.”
Ms. Fernsby grips the pearl necklace around her throat. “I don’t understand.”
Darcie sighs, waves her hand in the air. “Get away from here. You’ve said enough and my cats don’t like you.”
I’m not sure if it’s the second glass of brandy, but I feel the air loosening like a relaxed cord. We’re quiet, staring at
each other as a clock chimes from somewhere in the house.
“Was he like that when he was alive?” Darcie asks.
“Like what?”
“Like a bloody twat.”
“No . . . well . . . he was particular about how I kept the house.”
Darcie shakes her head. “You don’t work for him anymore, luv.
You don’t keep that house for him anymore.
You don’t need him anymore. If you want to stay in the house because you enjoy taking care of it, fine.
But don’t do it or anything else for him.
” She shivers. “Good heavens, I’m glad he’s out of my house. ”
A tear slides down Ms. Fernsby’s powdered cheek. She might be employed by the Routledge estate, but all the scrubbing, dusting,
and cleaning she does is for him.
She’s still in love with him.
Darcie sighs, refilling our snifters before settling back in her chair heavily. “Give him up, Annabel. He was never worth
it.”
Ms. Fernsby’s hand trembles as she lifts the glass to her lips.
Although admittedly, some weird Victorian shit just went down, I’m still struggling to believe that Mr. Routledge was here
in this room with us. But Ms. Fernsby looks shaken, as if she’s been touched by a ghost.
“You know,” Ms. Fernsby says softly, “my first day at the row house, thirty years ago, he did give me an entire day of training for how his shoes were supposed to be arranged in the closet. He had a closetful and was meticulous about the order in which the pairs were organized. And although he would send the most extravagant gifts, he didn’t come to a single one of Mabel’s birthdays. ”
“Be done with him, Annabel. He’s dead.”
We’re all quiet. Ms. Fernsby dabs her eyes with a handkerchief.
Darcie kindly places her hand over Ms. Fernsby’s on the table. “Do you think, after all these years, you can finally give
him up?”
“Maybe.”
“I think you can, Annabel. I think you should.”
Ms. Fernsby nods. “And what about her Philip? He’s the one I was hoping we’d see.”
Darcie looks at me, a strange expression on her face. “We’ll give it a try.”
Once Ms. Fernsby calms, Darcie closes her eyes, and we wait.
My heart speeds up. If Philip could come back to me, he would.
I wait, watch for the cats to start getting restless. I stare at the candelabra, willing it to start flickering. Please, please flicker . . . Do something unexpected . . .
“Nothing,” Darcie says, sighing.
“Nothing?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sometimes they don’t show up.”
What did I expect?
If I hadn’t downed the two brandies, I’d have realized that Darcie likely had this whole séance event staged to help her friend
move on from a long-dead asshat. Still, privately I desperately hoped Philip would appear. I realize how much I wanted it
to happen. I ached for it.
“Can you try again?” I ask pathetically.
“Let’s see.”
She closes her eyes, and collectively we hold our breath in silence. Then she snaps her eyes open and shakes her head.
“Sorry, luv. He’s not coming.”
“Well, why ever not?” Ms. Fernsby implores.
“Sometimes, they choose for us not to see them. It can be a kindness.”
Really, Philip?
“Lizzie, we can always come back here,” Ms. Fernsby says gently. “He might just not be up to it tonight. It uses up a lot
of energy, right, Darcie?”
Darcie shakes her head. “It’s not that. Sometimes the spirits know it’s not good for us to see them.”
“Why wouldn’t it be good for me to see Philip?”
“I’ve encountered this before. Sometimes, the love is so strong it continues uninterrupted, steady as it was in life. You
don’t need me to bring him here.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why wouldn’t it be good for me to see him?”
Darcie speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully. “There are dangers with this type of love, Lizzie. Because the love is
sturdy, when one partner dies, the other one remains actively attached in such a way that they are unable to move on. The
good spirits know this about their living loves. You don’t need Philip to show up to you tonight. And he won’t—because he knows it’s not good for you.”
“I hope you’re not too disappointed,” Ms. Fernsby says as we ride back to the row house. “These séances—they rarely turn out
as expected.”
I stare out the Uber car window at the passing streetlamps.
I’ll probably feel embarrassed in the morning, silly that something in me wanted to believe Philip could return to me. But I think part of being warm and human is holding out hope in the fantastic—that we can be surprised in our ordinary, known world.
“How do you feel about what happened?” I ask.
She sighs. “Released.”
Back at the house, we find Mabel sipping hot tea at the kitchen island. Everything is clean and quiet, with Heathcliff safely
tucked in and asleep upstairs. Ms. Fernsby has settled into a distracted mood since we left the séance, and after chatting
a bit with her daughter, she heads up to bed. I sit across from Mabel. I’d only met her briefly before we left for Darcie’s,
and here in the kitchen light, I see immediately her resemblance to Lord Routledge—the high cheekbones, the long nose. Although
not much younger than Sarah and me, she could pass for a college student. Sporting an oversize sweatshirt with floral yoga
pants and hair up in a high ponytail, she looks fun, like someone who hares off backpacking to Switzerland on a long weekend.
“Love that little boy of yours,” she says, her eyes a warm blue like her mother’s.
We make small talk for a bit. She tells me about how she and Heathcliff built a LEGO Gotham City and how he managed to negotiate
three books before bedtime. (Fiercely negotiating beyond one book at bedtime has been Heathcliff’s longtime MO with babysitters.)
When we hear Ms. Fernsby’s bedroom door shut upstairs, Mabel leans forward, lowering her voice.
“Mum seemed a bit off. Is everything okay?”
I tell her about the séance and Ms. Fernsby’s response in the car.
“Released,” Mabel says thoughtfully, taking another sip of tea. I stare at the tea bag, wet and limp on a nearby floral saucer.
“It’s about bloody time.”
“She’s loved him for all these years,” I murmur. “I could tell that by the way she talked about him during the séance.”
“And he never deserved it. He provided for me, but that was it. He never considered himself anything more to her or me. Don’t
misunderstand me—I’m not bitter. I have Sarah, and she’s every bit a sis to me. But Mum, she’s pined after Lord Routledge
for all these years, never really ready to move on.”
“Maybe after tonight?” I say hopefully.
Mabel nods vigorously. “If anyone can convince her to move on, it’s Darcie. They’ve been friends for years, and I’ve sat in on many of her ‘events.’ She convinces
people about what’s good for them far beyond what any therapist can do. Whatever ghost gobbledygook happens in her parlor,
Darcie works magic. Trust me.”
As I’m pulling back the bedcovers, Henry texts me a screenshot of a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights.
Henry: Diving in!
I text back a smiley face, strangely tickled that he’s trying yoga and reading Wuthering Heights in the same week. I suppose he should inspire me.
I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to dance again.