CHAPTER TWELVE #2
The park was beautifully desolate, the trees shivering in the wind and swirling snow.
A coach-in-four passed at racing speed, loose shimmering spumes of snow fanning out from under its wheels.
Leona considered and abandoned several ideas and settled on the obvious.
She’d play a woman who wanted to contact her dead husband—and would pay well to do so.
This would get her within the house. As she understood seances, a select group came together believing their beloved dead would return to communicate with them.
Apparently by shaking tambourines, blowing trumpets, and causing furniture to rise.
She cautioned herself not to tell too many lies, to not get caught up in her own web of deceit.
If Audrey were indeed a part of the medium’s circle, she would, of course, recognize Leona.
She knew Leona’s disdain for so-called spiritualists.
But she first only needed to mention she knew Audrey Larkin and see what the response would be.
And she would endeavor to always keep the heavy veil over her face and remember to limp.
If she got it right, the medium would try to secure her trust. To gain access to their bank account.
Leona would strive to gain his trust to find Audrey.
Her stomach clenched with anticipation, as if before a battle.
Well, no, she likely wouldn’t vomit this time.
Her thoughts turned to the strange waking dream she’d had.
The Wilderness, the deep, awful place like a piece of hell on earth.
It came to her in bits and pieces. Maybe in the writing of the memoir, she’d raised some powerful ghosts of her own.
Too soon the carriage came through the park, plodding down the avenue for a few miles until it slowed and stopped.
She stepped down from the cab and paid the driver.
The houses weren’t so grand as the ones on the Heights, but still expensive and well kept.
She walked on, glad to be out of the carriage and in the open air.
She followed Wyndham Street until her footsteps brought her to the house with the empty lots on either side and tightly shuttered windows.
Just as on the card, the door painted bright blue with yellow stars and paler blue teardrops.
A well-dressed young woman came to a halt in front of the house, then passed it.
She returned not a moment later, a handkerchief pressed to her face.
Perhaps as a disguise or to hide her tears.
When she finally rang the bell, an older woman answered the door.
She scolded her in soft tones for her lateness and guided her inside for the appointment.
Leona wondered what types of services Jesper Frost offered.
She limped down the street using her cane until she came to a newsstand.
A stack of pamphlets lay on a shelf, written by Jesper Frost. She bought a few for pennies.
Taking them to a coffee house, she read them by the window, fortifying herself with coffee, muffins, and information.
Leona tried to keep her mind open as she read, but she ended up snorting her way through the paragraphs of pseudo-metaphysical language.
Jesper Frost had, apparently, traveled the world seeking enlightenment.
He was a medium and a teacher of mediumship and for a fee one could become his student.
He only chose those with the most potential, and the application fee was non-refundable.
Six nights a week Jesper Frost and his wife held sittings—which was only what the French word séance meant.
The first consultation was free. One could pay a fee thereafter or obtain a subscription.
Those who paid for a subscription would have access to the Frost’s guardian spirits and help in contacting their own.
Leona did not want the medium and his agents looking into her life, not in its present state.
She needed someone more dramatic and vulnerable, not hardtack Leona.
Moneyed and susceptible to handsome young men, as Mr. Frost appeared in the sketch of him in the pamphlet.
A seeker but one who hadn’t the wits to seek for herself.
She summoned her imagination to embellish the fiction.
One she had to believe herself before it could be believable to others.
She thought hard for a time, until she had it worked out.
Rising from the table, she left coins for the bill.
She crossed the street and knocked on the blue and yellow door.
A middle-aged woman with a round face and long black curls opened the door. In a plain brown day dress, she peered down at her through small, oval-shaped spectacles.
“You’re early,” the woman said. “I’m sure it was explained to you. To maintain the confidentiality of Mr. Frost’s clientele, we have our appointments spaced out just so—”
“I don’t have an appointment,” Leona interrupted. “Please might I speak to the spirits today? Here.” She pulled both the calling card and torn page of hearts from her pocket and handed them to the woman.
She glanced at them, frowning. “I’ll have to consult my daybook. I’m not sure we can accommodate you today or any day soon—where did you get these, if I may ask?”
“Mrs. Eliza Rackham. She is a friend of a friend of my mother’s. Once she heard of my plight, she insisted I take these cards to recommend me to you.”
The woman smiled, all teeth and cold eyes.
Leona knew a hunter when she saw one. The woman’s gaze swept her from head to toe.
Leona was glad to have worn not only the black bombazine, but the pearl and gold brooch, the matching earrings.
No patches or overly turned hems to hide their fraying.
The Gladney difficulties were recent and had not worn down their resources yet, much like the character she hoped to portray.
The woman sighed and held the door open, staring out with suspicion at the street. “Well, come in, then.” There were crates tucked into a dark corner of the hall, for which she apologized. “We are moving.”
Moving. What could this mean, if anything? Leona limped in, saying, “How lovely for you and your husband.”
“Oh no, Mr. Frost is not—no, indeed.” Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks. “I am Mrs. Drew. I manage the household accounts and appointment book.”
“Please, will he help me?” Leona cried out, slumping against the wall. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You must be quite desperate,” Mrs. Drew purred as she led Leona to the parlor. “Come, we’ll talk. Then I will speak to Mr. Frost for you. Seeking our loved ones in the other world is quite draining. We must be careful not to exhaust him or his wife by overbooking.”
Leona let loose a flood of gratitude as Mrs. Drew poured her a cup of tea. She conjured tears and sobs, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, casting covert glances at Mrs. Drew to judge her reactions. She listened well, and Leona cautioned herself again to keep the story simple.
“It’s such a small thing,” Leona wheedled.
“I just want to ask where my husband put the new will so my mother can get the care she needs. His children are so cold-hearted. I can’t believe they would even, for a moment.
...” Leona trailed off into boo-hoos. Mrs. Drew patted her hand while Leona gave herself up to false grief.
Perhaps not so false, as it was amazingly easy to conjure in her disguise.
“We are not speaking of much money, are we, dear? There, there now, you must stop crying. Surely your own family would not want to see your mother suffer.”
Leona let herself go on a minute longer, noting Mrs. Drew’s rising impatience. Dabbing at her eyes, Leona shuddered, as if pulling herself together. “There is no one else,” she said quietly, aiming for fragile dignity. “The war, you see. We are quite alone.”
Mrs. Drew smiled again, a mere crack that revealed yellow teeth. Leona thought her answers pleased the woman.
“We shall attempt to be your advocates in this world. But. As Mr. Frost and household are moving to a new address, finances are quite strained, as you might imagine. Though he is much in demand, he depends upon the donations of the devoted few who can manage it.” She strode across the room to a podium where a thick book stood open but turned away from Leona’s view.
Licking a finger, she turned a few pages back and forth. “I don’t think, hmm. No....”
“I can pay.” Leona fumbled in the reticule.
“Well...a donation would help your—our cause.” Mrs. Drew continued studying the book, appearing to observe Leona from the corner of her eye.
Leona thrust out a handful of bills. Mrs. Drew took a few steps toward her, hand out.
“And if they can find the will, there is more.” Leona caught her eye and held it as the bills passed from her hand to Mrs. Drew’s. “Much more.”
There, they had returned volleys with neither of them flinching.
Nodding, Mrs. Drew went to a bookshelf and drew out a leather-bound book dyed the same blue as the door. Moving aside the daybook, she said, “Your full name?”
“I’d rather not—”
She cleared her throat, the pen poised above the page, her eyes on Leona.
“Elmira. Elmira St. James.” An acquaintance from boarding school.
Leona’s grandfather’s investigations had revealed the modern spiritualist’s secrets.
After the first contact, a second or assistant would do the footwork required to investigate the potential client.
Leona imagined they knew much about Daphne Van Wyn, the death of her husband and sons, and of others in their circle.
It wouldn’t take long before they discovered whose grandchild Leona was, if she told the truth.
But Elmira wasn’t meant to hold up for a prolonged amount of time.
“Your place of birth, the date, and the approximate time, if you know it?”
She didn’t want Mrs. Drew chasing the phantasm she’d created. She’d only find Elmira a fiction and herself locked out of her only lead.
“Another friend, Audrey Larkin, told me you—”
Mrs. Drew threw her a startled look and snapped the book shut. “We do not discuss our clients’ business with the public. Young woman, are you a reporter?”
Leona play-acted appalled, trying to bring tears to her eyes again.
“I beg your pardon? I thought you—I thought we—They recommended Mr. Frost quite highly to me. Perhaps—perhaps I should go.” Leona rose and took a staggering step toward the door.
“There must be someone who can help us!” The rustle of skirts behind her and Mrs. Drew’s hand on her arm made her heart beat quicker with this success.
“You are overwrought. Please come and sit down. I did not mean to upset you. I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, and there is cake. Please, sit, Mrs. St. James.”
Leona returned to the brocaded chair. Mrs. Drew left her alone.
Could the business of not discussing clients mean Audrey had been a client at one time?
Eliza Rackham said she accompanied Daphne to séances.
The address of Audrey’s mother or where in New Jersey Audrey had hidden herself might be in the sky-colored diary. Not three feet from where Leona sat.
Were the friends of Daphne Van Wyn also in danger? Were they targets, too?
Muscles tensing to rise, she’d taken a mental step toward the book when Mrs. Drew re-appeared with a tray of tea and cake.
As if she were a demon summoned by a wayward thought.
Mrs. Drew picked up the ledger, murmuring about appointments and Mr. Frost. Disappointment washed through Leona with the knowledge nothing in her life had ever been that easy.
All she wanted was the damn address. She resigned herself to returning for a séance where she would wait for an opportunity to look in the ledger.
Mrs. Drew glanced at her with a devilish smile. “One of our members has canceled. Are you free tomorrow night?”