CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Y ou’re the first to arrive,” Mrs. Drew informed Leona as she led her up the stairs, the gas lights low.
Leona squinted in the gloom. The view through the black veil over her face obscured both her features and the room around her.
But her sight adjusted as she followed Mrs. Drew past the bare walls and the overflowing crates.
She gritted her teeth at the thought of them getting away before she had her answers.
It’d been a trying day, and she almost decided against coming here.
In the end, fearing she wouldn’t get another chance, she went through with her plan to attend the séance.
Leona chattered on as Elmira would, all verve and nerves, like the original girl back in Boston, conjuring banalities to cover her anxiety.
When they reached the seance parlor, Mrs. Drew was rubbing her temple with one hand and clutching the ledger with the other.
In the center of the room stood a large round table with eight chairs. Eight unlit candles sat before each table place. Mrs. Drew approached the tea trolley against the far wall and set the ledger down on it. She poured tea and handed it to Leona standing beside the table.
Leona pulled her gaze away to take the cup and saucer. She glanced around the room. A narrow wooden cabinet stood in a corner. Esoteric symbols, outlined in silver thread, shimmered on the black velvet draping it.
“Is that a spirit box?”
Mrs. Drew nodded before returning to pick up the ledger. “Indeed. Perhaps we will have need of it tonight.”
A man entered and smiled at Leona. “Have need of what tonight, Mrs. Drew?”
“Mrs. St. James has an interest in the spirit box.” Mrs. Drew crossed her hands over the book and held it close to her skirts. “Mr. Jesper Frost, may I introduce you to Mrs. Elmira St. James.”
“How do you do?” He took her hand and gave it a lingering squeeze. “You are very welcome to our circle, Mrs. St. James.”
She tugged her hand back from his hot, gripping fingers. “Thank you. I pray you can help me.”
He made a little bow. “As do we all, Mrs. St. James.”
His white-blond hair fell over his collar.
He drew a packet of lucifers from his pocket and struck one to light the first candle.
With it, he circled the table and touched the flame to all eight.
She felt as if he watched her from the corner of his eye to make sure she was watching him.
He wore a purple velvet suit and a black shirt without a collar.
A white silk scarf draped his neck. Sharp gray eyes observed her even as she observed him.
An actor playing a role. She hoped he didn’t see through her own masque.
She’d prepared herself for charm, charisma, but not this aura of masculinity and its powerful pull.
Decadently tight trousers emphasized his thighs and calves, as obvious as an actress’s decolletage.
Blushing, Leona turned to Mrs. Drew. Her eyes were like hooks, Elmira the fish on her line.
He held up the end of the scarf. “The color white attracts the spirits.”
Turning back to him, she said, “How interesting.”
“Perhaps you seek more than contact with your late husband, Mrs. St. James? Are you interested in mediumship?”
Unexpected tears dripped down her face for the fictional husband.
Perhaps the atmosphere was affecting her, pinching at her, despite her knowledge.
She’d been unable to cry for her twin griefs, losing Jack and then the child.
She’d later understood the laudanum worked like a sentry between her and the pain.
“I don’t know.” Leona fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief. She’d left the gun at home. “Possibly.”
“There, there, my dear woman. Soon we will reunite you with your husband in this world. Here, sit here.” He pulled a chair out for her.
Mrs. Drew’s narrow gaze never left her. Leona’s grief dissipated under the onslaught of those cold eyes that had already pried at her vulnerability, even under the cover of her false story.
“All is well, my dear.” Mr. Frost patted the chair. “Please, sit.”
The last thing she wanted to do, but she was supposed to be vulnerable and compliant, wasn’t she?
Show an enthusiasm for mediumship, old girl.
So, she sat and placed her teacup on the table with a rattle.
Another step closer to getting her memoir back.
The candlelight dazzled her. He settled beside her, uncomfortably close and turned his chair to face her.
Eau de Cologne, or a copy of the famously expensive scent, assailed her. Flowers, herbs, and citrus.
“I’m glad you are the first to arrive so we may get to know each other better.” He flashed a warm and engaging smile—its light even glowed in his eyes. “Now, would you be so kind as to give me what Mrs. Drew asked you to bring?”
Before Leona left yesterday, the woman had requested she bring in an object once belonging to her husband.
Leona handed Mr. Frost a letter opener she’d purchased at a sundry store on the way here, once she determined no one had followed her.
She’d wrapped it in a handkerchief she’d embroidered with her false husband’s initials after Helen left and Gil had gone to bed.
Having misplaced her thimble months ago, her finger was quite tender.
With an air of reverence, Mr. Frost arranged the objects before him on the table.
“You miss him very much,” he said.
He took her hand and looked into her eyes.
Leona lost her momentum. Her heart conjured her blue-eyed Jack.
Born into a Marblehead whaling family who’d boosted themselves into the upper class by investing in plantations in the South and the Caribbean.
His service in the Union Army was atonement. He’d left Harvard to fight.
The mad clock began to tick.
Jack staggers out of a cloud of cannon smoke, Jared in his arms, Luke hanging onto him, screaming.
It’s a wonder she can hear his anger and grief over the blast of guns and ordnance.
Jack lays Jared’s body down in the trampled grass, and she kneels beside him.
The blood soaks into her trousers at the knee. Jack turns to her and says
“He’s dead,” Leona told Jesper Frost, the catch in her voice real.
Jesper Frost nodded. “You have questions. Perhaps we can help you find the answers.”
Leona took a deep shuddering breath, focusing on anything but Jesper or the strange effect the candlelight had on her. She looked down at her wedding ring, a large ruby in a gold setting with a filigreed band.
“Will you help me find my husband’s will?”
“If he wants you to have your heart’s desire, perhaps he will speak to us tonight. Have you been to a sitting before?”
“Yes, a few times with my friends.”
Leona ground her teeth, suddenly overcome again with disgust. The great death toll of the War Between the States sent the survivors into the parlors of spiritualists and mediums. They sought their lost ones and the reassurance of an afterlife with them.
Mostly, they ended up exploited, disappointed, or worse.
Did such a thing as true evil exist? And if it did, what did that mean?
The Transcendentalists believed society’s institutions corrupted people.
What or who had corrupted Jesper Frost? Did she even believe this anymore? Could evil be a natural force?
“Mrs. St. James?”
She jumped, looking up again from the contemplation of the ruby on her finger.
“I’m so sorry. I got caught up in a memory of J-John in his last hours,” she improvised. She’d better pull herself together. “Will we start soon? Will I see him tonight?”
“Perhaps. We may have a full house this evening. The energy of the spirits is so very close.” He ran a hand through his straight hair with a small laugh.
“I feel as if every strand is standing on end.” Leaning away from her, he went on, turning to Mrs. Drew.
“You mentioned possible mutual acquaintances. What were the names again?”
“Mrs. Eliza Rackham and Daphne Van Wyn, whom you must know has passed on beyond this vale of tears.”
“So very sad, such a good, generous woman.” Jesper dropped his chin to his chest, sighing. “Indeed.”
Leona fisted her hands, hidden beneath the table. “And Audrey—Larkin? She was Mrs. Van Wyn’s nurse. I heard she accompanied—”
At the sharp knocking on the door downstairs, Mrs. Drew hurried away, taking the ledger with her. Leona’s heart sped up. What if Geneva was wrong and her husband showed up tonight? Or Audrey? Why in the world did she think a thin mourning veil could hide her identity?
To her great relief, none of the newcomers were Van Wyn or Audrey. She did not speak through the introductions; let them believe nerves silenced her. The party filled seven chairs. Who was the eighth? Her heart sped up again. What if it was Van Wyn after all?
When a woman appeared, hovering in the doorway, Leona finally relaxed with a small sigh. The group murmured happy, encouraging greetings to the newcomer. Her shy smile sent coos around the table.
“Millie, my love.” Jesper stood and led her to the empty chair. “I’m so glad you could attend tonight.”
“She has headaches, terrible ones, and sometimes misses the seances,” the elderly lady on her left, Mrs. Vanderveen, whispered. “Poor, poor dear.”
“But who is she?” Leona whispered back.
Mrs. Vanderveen beamed at the woman now sitting amongst them in the circle. “Mr. Frost’s wife and protégé.”
“Hush,” Mrs. Drew hissed from across the table.
Plain-faced Millie had to be in her thirties. Her long dark brown hair she wore plaited and pinned around her head. Her frock was of good quality, a muted plum, and a fringed white shawl hung from her shoulders. As she and the circle members settled down, Leona glanced through the group again.