The Spiritualist (35 page)

I woke on the floor, the scream caught in my throat. I was losing my mind. I reached out in the darkness; it was a moment before I realized it was the comfort of Michel I’d been reaching for, and I drew back again, shaking, and there was a knocking on the door that raised panic within me. “No!” I called, my voice hoarse. “Go away!”

“Ma’am? Ma’am, it’s Kitty. Are you all right? I heard a noise—”

Kitty. I brushed back the hair that had fallen in my face and made myself rise. “I’m fine,” I called.

“Are you ready for breakfast, ma’am? Or to dress?”

I glanced about my room, at the still-made bed, the clothes piled in the middle of the floor. Clothes that I could not have removed myself and which any maid would have put away. “Could you bring me some tea, please?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I listened for her footsteps to recede, and then I picked up my clothing, the gown and corset, the crinolines, my chemise. I hung them all in the armoire, and then I crawled into bed and leaned back on the pillows and waited for her to return. When she did only a few minutes later, I took the tea from her and held it to my lips, letting the steam bathe my face. If Kitty noticed anything wrong, she said nothing.

“Charley gave me a message from Miz Bennett,” she said as she went to the armoire. “She’s coming to supper tonight, and she asks you to be there.”

“She does?” I’d scarcely expected her to be well enough to rise from bed, much less preside over a supper.

“Mr. Lambert said the mistress was in a poor way last night,” Kitty said, as if she read my thoughts. “Molly said she heard her moanin’ and groanin’ ‘til nearly morning—what happened to this bombazine? It’s all wrinkled up—” She took the gown I’d hung up and shook it out, beating at the wrinkles in the skirt before she hung it back again. “But I guess Mr. Jourdain worked his miracles. She was calling for her sons, I heard. Poor thing. And them gone now twenty years or more.”

I was amazed at how easily I could answer her. “I don’t suppose one ever stops missing one’s children.”

“I suppose not, ma’am. But not having any myself, I can’t say. Noisy and selfish little things, from what I can see. Will it be the silk or the wool today?”

“I’ll wear the silk. This house is too hot for wool.”

But once I was dressed, three-quarters of an hour later, I didn’t leave my room. I could not bear to think of last night, yet it was impossible not to. I tried to read, but I found myself too distracted even for Elisha Kane’s
Arctic Explorations
, which I’d taken from the library. The book had been all the talk of the upper ten this year, but I would no more read a sentence about ice-covered landscapes and men burdened to the breaking point than I would remember the play of Michel’s muscles beneath my hands. I cast aside the book, only to feel the ache of my thighs as I turned, only to catch my breath at the sudden image of his mouth on my breast.

This had never happened with Peter. Not these kinds of memories, never the visceral reaction to them after he’d gone from my bed. Peter had never made me feel as if my body was a source of endless fascination. I had never felt alive beneath his hands. I knew it was wrong to feel this way, and to feel it for my husband’s murderer
—
what kind of woman was I? To yearn for him, even knowing how he’d played me, even knowing this was a game for him, some way to keep me from finding the truth. I could not do this, I could not think of him, and yet I couldn’t stop myself either. Most women dreamed of chaste kisses, of romantic glances across the room. Of men like Benjamin. I remembered the affectionate kiss Ben had given me the night before. Respectful, fond, so different from Michel’s.

I thought of Dorothy crying out to touch him, and I understood it and knew he had somehow bewitched us both. And I knew that I must put an end to it.

I went to the window, where I stared out over the barren side yard and the small bit of Fifth Avenue I could see. There, on the corner of the First Presbyterian Church grounds, stood my police watchman. He seemed so idle, watching the people walk by on their way to wherever it was they meant to pass the time. How I envied them, those people for whom a policeman on Fifth Avenue meant nothing, for whom the sight of a blue coat and copper badge flashing in the light was not a subtle reminder of what terrible turns a life could take. I had been one of them only a month ago, yet how far away that world felt now.

I must gain hold of myself. I must remember what Michel no doubt never forgot—to not lose sight of my plan. I could not let him distract me. I could not afford to fail.

T
HE DAY PASSED
day passed slowly, and when it was finally time to ready for supper, I was strung taut with nerves. In the first months of my marriage, I had faced the most formidable dragons of society. Now what I faced chilled me more than had my introduction to Caroline Astor. I didn’t want to be alone with him. I was too vulnerable. I lingered in my room a long time. Then, when I felt I could wait no longer, I made my way downstairs to the dining room. I paused for a moment outside the doorway, gathering my strength, and then I stepped inside.

He was there, his back to me as he stood by the fireplace leafing through a book. At the sight of him, I said too sharply, “Dorothy still intends to join us, I hope.”

He turned. His frock coat tonight was a deep green. I remembered how large his tailor bill had been; I didn’t think I’d seen him in the same coat twice.
“Madame,”
he said with a small bow and a mocking tone. “I wondered if you’d left us. You’ve been scarce all day.”

“I’ve been forbidden to leave the city,” I said.

“But not this house.”

“I believe the prosecutor would disagree with you. I either live here or I go to the Tombs. The terms of my bail were quite explicit.”

He put aside the book. “The way you talked this morning—”

“I’d rather not speak of it.”

“Ah. You’d rather ignore that it happened?”

“Exactly.”

“No doubt it’s become a habit for you.”

“I’ve never done
anything
like that—”

“I meant ignoring things,” he said. He moved to the table, which was set for three, and motioned to the decanted wine in its elaborately cut crystal. “Would you care for some?”

“I think I’d prefer to wait for Dorothy.”

“Then you won’t mind if I do?” When I shook my head, he poured the wine into his glass and drank it quickly, and then poured another. He raised his glass to me, smiling wickedly.

I heard a commotion on the stairs, the bustle that normally accompanied Dorothy’s every move. Michel heard it too; he set the wineglass on the table and strode past me to the door.

I hardly saw Dorothy at first, so surrounded was she by her nurses, not until Michel took her arm and she flapped her hands at the others and told them to leave, and then I was amazed at her transformation. Her eyes were shining, and she wore a deep plum gown that made her hair seem beautifully white. Instead of her usual beribboned cap, someone had swept her hair up, catching it in a gold clasp that sparkled with garnets and peridot and topaz. She was looking into Michel’s face adoringly, but when he brought her to the table, she went from his arms to me, pressing her dry, powdered cheek against mine, saying, “Here she is. My miracle.”

“Indeed,” Michel said dryly. “Come,
ma chère
. Sit before you tire yourself out.”

“I feel reborn,” she said, but she obeyed him, settling herself in the chair at the head of the table, where he waited to seat her.

“For a few hours, at least.” He smiled, coming to pull out the chair for me, and I sat on Dorothy’s right, ignoring the brush of his hand against my shoulder. The maid came almost immediately, ladling out a soup for which I had no appetite.

“You look wonderfully rested,” I told Dorothy.

“It isn’t rest, child, it’s hope. The hope that soon I’ll hear my sons again.”

“You’ve heard them at nearly every circle,” Michel said, reaching for the wine.

“Yes, and don’t think I’m not grateful, dear boy. But last night it was like sitting down to supper with them, remembering old times.” Her eyes shone. “Did you see them, child? Did you see my boys?”

I nodded.

“Describe them to me.”

“They were young, maybe eight and ten. Dark haired. Very sweet. You were there too. You wore a big straw hat with poppies—”

“Yes, I remember it!”

“They were playing in the river. They ran into it wearing their clothes. They were dressed as if they’d just come from church.”

“A family dinner,” she corrected me dreamily. “With Edward’s parents. Oh, they were a pair, stiff as deacons, and Edward obeyed them like a, well, I suppose some would say a good son. I never cared for them much. The boys had to be so proper when they were around. But Johnny and Everett! Those two weren’t much for sitting still.”

I smiled. “I could see that.”

She closed her eyes, as if lingering with the memory. “Michel’s brought them to me, but never like that.”

“Perhaps they come differently through a man,” I said carefully.

“Not that much different, I think,” he said sharply. “But it doesn’t do to tire you,
ma chère.
So much excitement! I only mean to protect you from it. I didn’t want you to pass a terrible night, as you did last night.”

The light in her eyes dimmed. “Yes, I know. I fear I’m not as strong as I used to be.”

Politely, I said, “It must have been a shock to have them come like that, through me.”

“A shock.” She nodded. When Michel poured her wine, she reached for the glass almost convulsively. “Yes, it was. It surely was. Frankly, child, we were expecting Peter.”

I thought of my nightmare this morning with a shudder. “He seems content to haunt my dreams instead.”

“Why is that, I wonder?” Dorothy mused. The jewels in her rings sparkled in the candlelight as she clutched the stem of her glass. “Why not come to the circle? We were all his friends.”

“I don’t know.” I glanced up, catching Michel’s gaze. “Perhaps someone in the circle knows why. Perhaps there’s some secret.”

“What secret would that be?”

Michel took a sip of wine. His expression was inscrutable as he said, “
Madame
believes one of us might hold the answer to Peter’s murder.”

Dorothy turned to me with a frown. “But, my dear, why would you think so?”

“The spirit writing,” I said, referring to the one thing I knew she would believe. “It tells me there are liars among us.”

Michel said, “To understand spirit writing needs great skill. You’re a novice. How can you be sure you’re reading it correctly?”

“Michel may be right, child,” Dorothy said.

“It isn’t always so easy to discern intentions,
Madame.
Swedenborg says that the spirits who come will be the ones we have an affinity with. New mediums can’t always tell the difference between lying spirits and those who tell the truth. They need a guide.” Michel smiled contritely and curled his hand around Dorothy’s, clasping her fingers. “
Madame
is like most developing mediums. Depending too much on reason, when one should trust instinct instead.”

“I don’t need instinct to tell me the spirits are right.”

“If you believe them so well, why aren’t you doing what they ask?”

“I am!”

“Non, Madame,”
he said. “They’re telling you to ask the right questions. Why don’t you? Tell me something: have you ever asked yourself why Peter was down near the river that night?”

The words held an uncomfortable echo. I remembered Benjamin’s assistant.
“I was sorry when he was found that way. But I suppose, given how often he went down there…”

The last time I’d seen Peter flashed through my mind. His insistence on going out again, his determination to find answers about the attempt on Michel’s life. Or, had it been, as Ben speculated, because he’d believed he was the target, because he meant to question Michel?

I met Michel’s gaze. “He was concerned for you.”

He looked surprised. “For me?”

“I told you he believed the shooting in the circle that night was not a misfire. What I didn’t say was that he told me he thought the target was you. He also told me he meant to find out why.” I watched him, waiting for his expression to confirm either Peter’s suspicions or Ben’s and my own.

Michel didn’t look at me. Instead, he and Dorothy exchanged a glance, and I felt their sudden tension.

The maid took away the soup bowls, which had been almost untouched, and brought a roast bedecked with rosemary and onions. As she served it, Dorothy sighed. “There’s much more to this than you’ve been told, child.” Then, as Michel began to protest—“No, dear boy, it’s time she knew. The night before that circle, Peter and I argued.”

“There’s no need to speak of this,” Michel said in a tight voice.

She ignored him. “You know he didn’t like the idea of the adoption.”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Well, child”—she paused in the midst of cutting her beef—“Peter came to tell me he meant to file commitment papers.”

“I don’t understand. Commitment of what?”

“Of Dorothy to an asylum,” Michel said. He put his hand on her shoulder, as if to comfort her. “He was going to have her put away.”

The information was startling; what it meant for me was more startling still. “Because of the adoption?”

“
Oui
. He tried to convince her I meant to cheat her. When she wouldn’t believe him—”

“How could I believe him? How could he believe it himself?” Dorothy held Michel’s hand tight to her shoulder. “It troubles me to say it, but I lost my love for him in that moment. I thought we were confidants. He was much more than my lawyer—he was nearly another son to me. Well, I admit I was beside myself. He asked me not to tell Michel, and I obliged—until after the circle the next night.” Dorothy looked at me, her gaze direct. “I was afraid he’d gone mad. In fact, I suspected him of trying to hurt my dear boy. I told Michel everything and kept him near me all night.”

“A long night,
oui
,” Michel agreed.

I should have been glad. It was exactly the kind of information Benjamin had told me to find, and I knew it would help my case immensely. Though I believed Dorothy when she said she had been afraid for Michel, I knew Peter would not have hurt him. And I didn’t believe Dorothy’s alibi for Michel—she would lie for him without even knowing it.