Suddenly, someone loomed tall at her back. “Unhand her,” Reverend Townsend commanded, his voice ringing in the air.
Mr. Palsham let loose of Beatrice. Briefly looking at the preacher, he gave a polite nod as if he was handing off a dance partner in the middle of a waltz. Without a word, he slipped into the crowd.
“Are you all right?” Reverend Townsend asked, now standing at Beatrice’s side.
“I think so,” she answered, still queasy and shaken. Just as she was about to thank him for intervening, Adelaide appeared.
“There you are,” she said to Beatrice while giving Reverend Townsend a suspicious stare. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” Handing the preacher a notice for the lecture she said, “If you want to see more of her, you’ll have to come to the hotel tonight.”
Beatrice linked arms with Adelaide as they walked towards the torch. She’d never been so happy to see anyone in all her life.
The Bird Lady trailed after them, picking notices from the ground whenever they dropped from Adelaide’s hand. Cloudy eyes shining, she rattled a string of stinking oyster shells tied to her wrist. “He’s here!” she sang. “He’s here! He means to catch a witch!”
The speedy gleams the darkness swallo’d;
Loud, deep, and long the thunder bellow’d;
That night a child might understand
The devil had business on his hand.
—ROBERT BURNS
The Coming Storm.
RATHER THAN WAIT for Sister Piddock to come knocking on his door, Reverend Townsend planned to go to hers. He hadn’t begun composing his sermon, yet he felt sure that the message he’d deliver the next morning would be nothing short of inspired.
This evening, there was more important work at hand.
He’d saved that poor girl (the angelic maid with the lovely eyes) from certain danger in the arms of a foul gentleman, only to have her fall into the hands of a witch! That one-eyed wretch, that horrible woman, was by far the greater threat. He was sure he’d smelled sulphur when she was near.
He’d spotted her earlier in the day when she’d turned her grotesque visage towards Sister Piddock and scared the dear lady half to death. It’d been all he could do not to seize the hag and slit her throat then and there. He was sure, of course, that’s what she’d wanted—to beguile him into taking a course of action that would leave him looking like he, rather than she, was in league with the Devil.
The evil sorceress clearly had the maid bewitched. What else could explain the docile way in which the damsel had responded to her touch, her words, her commands? No one but a foul temptress could get so perfect a creature to do her bidding. Nothing but witchcraft could place so firm and convincing a hold on the unblemished.
Ah, but his God was a clever God! Just when the Reverend had thought the girl lost to him forever, the witch herself had provided him with the means to find her again. Now all he needed to do was to get to her before she fell further under her tormentor’s spell. The Lord’s Providence had put her in his path and he wasn’t about to abandon her in her time of need. Hers was a soul in distress waiting to be freed from the Devil’s grasp. Only then could she become the full measure of her God-given self and serve as a shining example to others. He could feel the Lord’s reason moving through him, making his blood run hot with divine guidance. He could see himself standing at the pulpit with the girl at his side—reformed, refined, reborn. What better way to increase the faithfulness of his fold than by having her stand before the congregation and testify of her woes? What better way to neuter a witch? If he got rid of the witch first, there was a good chance whatever curses she’d cast would live on, but to have one whom she’d afflicted rise up against her would surely break the spell. Once the damsel was saved—once he had his Mercy Wylde—and the witch’s evil confirmed, he’d set his sights on the witch herself.
“Oh Lord,” he cried, falling to his knees, “I will not shrink away from this calling! I will follow your path to the end of your choosing. I am prepared for whatever you would have me do—to save the girl in her innocence, or save the world from her if she be innocent no more. I believe that devils and witches still roam the earth just as I believe in your goodness. No matter what becomes of me, I will rest easy in the knowledge that I have followed your will.
“Bless me that I might be successful in my efforts, give me the strength, courage and resolve I need to execute your wishes. To Thee I will give thanksgiving, I will sing hymns of praise. Not my will, but Thine shall be done.”
After kissing his grandfather’s Bible three times along the spine, he tucked a small chemist’s bottle in his pocket wrapped in a cotton handkerchief, slid his knife into its sheath, and tied a cross of hazel wood around his neck. His goal was clear, his faith keen, his blade sharp.
—
Standing at Sister Piddock’s door, he handed her a slip of paper.
Psalm 73:27
For, lo, they that are far from thee shall perish:
Thou hast destroyed all them that go a whoring from thee.
“Is this all there is?” she asked, confused as to how she was supposed to choose the Sunday hymns from such an unsavoury verse.
“The scripture is all we need,” Reverend Townsend answered, heart pounding, anxious to get on his way. “I trust the Lord to guide me. I suggest you do the same.”
Yes, of course, Sister Piddock thought. The Reverend’s given me a test of faith. “Our God is a knowing God,” she said with a solemn nod. “I will pray and find a way.”
“He will provide,” Reverend Townsend said, tipping his hat.
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
Eleanor sensed a storm was on the way the minute she left the teashop—the hairs on the back of her neck pricked to attention as the melancholy scent of turning leaves hung heavy in the evening air. There was no sign of lightning yet, but she had no doubt it would arrive soon.
She’d always adored autumn storms—from the quiet that came before the rain when the birds and bugs went silent, to the raucous cracks and grumbles that echoed between the clouds, rife with the possibility of goblins and ghosts. Dancing on the porch of their cottage her mother had often sung an ominous little tune as the first raindrops hit the slate roof, a reminder of the dangers of getting caught in a tempest.
Beware the oak, it draws the stroke. Avoid the ash, it prompts the flash. Creep under the thorn, it saves you from harm.
Madame St. Clair believed that any trees that got burned or struck by lightning should be treated with great respect and that whatever wood remained, be it barely scorched or charred black, contained magical powers. Amongst her most prized possessions was a spoon made from the branch of an ash tree that’d been severed from its trunk by a blinding, terrible strike. She’d used the spoon every day to make soups and sauces, potions and brews. Whenever she got called to visit a house where trouble was stirring, she’d carried the spoon along with her and used it to knock on the door to dispel any anger or hard feelings. Halfway to the Newland residence Eleanor wondered if perhaps she should’ve stuck the worn relic inside her satchel along with the other items she’d packed for her visit with Lucy.
She hadn’t heard from Lucy since their conversation in the park and the last time her aunt had visited the shop, she’d claimed she hadn’t spoken to her niece in quite some time. “I suppose our Lucy is fine,” Mrs. Scrope had said, shaking her head in dismay, “but I wouldn’t know. Just last Monday I stopped by the house unannounced and the maid turned me away. ‘Mrs. Newland doesn’t wish to be disturbed,’ she’d said, arms folded, barring the door. I suppose Lucy has every right to refuse visitors, especially during her confinement, but I’m her family for heaven’s sake!”
Tucking a small packet of hibiscus tea in Mrs. Scrope’s bag, Eleanor had given the woman a sympathetic nod. “I’m sure it was a maid’s mistake. Please wish Lucy well for me next time you see her?”
With a troubled sigh Mrs. Scrope had replied, “I??
?ll tell her you asked after her.”
Reaching the Newlands’ door now, Eleanor wondered if she should bother. While it was possible that Lucy needed to see her, it was equally as possible that she might’ve called her there as part of some twisted game. Eleanor was prepared for the latter, but she was also prepared to help the young woman if she truly needed her. She’d brought a host of remedies along—ginger root for morning sickness, raspberry leaf to strengthen her womb, oarweed and a long slender hook if she wanted to turn things the other way and let the child go. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to stay long. She’d promised Beatrice she’d come to the lecture and she didn’t want to be late. After ringing the doorbell, she kissed the brass key tied around her neck, and made a silent wish that her mother be on her shoulder should anything go wrong.
“This way, ma’am,” the maid said, showing Eleanor into the Newlands’ drawing room.
To Eleanor’s surprise, the only person there was Lucy’s husband. Dressed in a silk smoking jacket, Cecil Newland was sitting by the fire, a decanter of whiskey and a half-empty glass at his side—the perfect picture of a man of wealth taking his leisure. “Care for a drink?” he asked, pouring more whiskey in his glass. The strong scent of alcohol blossomed in the room.
“No, thank you,” Eleanor replied. Looking to the clock on the mantel she wondered where Lucy might be. It was already quarter past seven. Where was she?
“Care to sit?” Mr. Newland asked, gesturing to the chair next to his.
“I’ll stand until Lucy arrives.”
Mr. Newland threw back his drink. “She’s not here,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Eleanor suspected he’d started drinking long before she’d arrived.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” she said.
Eyebrow arched, Mr. Newland asked, “You didn’t know she’d gone?”
“No,” Eleanor replied. “In fact I’m more than a little confused. She sent me a telegram this morning asking I meet her here at seven.”
“I sent the telegram,” Mr. Newland said. “So I suppose this means she’s up and left us both. Such a pity. She seemed so fond of you.” Fumbling, he reached for a small book on the table next to his chair. Turning to a page marked with a white ribbon he began to read aloud.
“ ‘June first. Saint C. has a devilishly delicate touch with her tongue! So playful. So masterful. So completely disarming. I tremble whenever I recall our last tryst. I’m counting the hours until I can be with her again. I need to have her naked body next to mine, feel her lips on my flesh. There is no better joy or complete pleasure. Nothing in this world compares to it…’ ” Peering up at Eleanor, he asked, “Shall I go on?”
Her face flushed hot. When she didn’t respond, Newland slammed the book shut and tossed it on the table. The decanter took the brunt of his anger, wobbling to and fro, and nearly toppling.
Eleanor tried her best to stay calm. “I assure you, Mr. Newland, I have never been and never will be a threat to your marriage.”
Mr. Newland sneered at her. “I believe it’s too late for such assurances.”
Perhaps it was, Eleanor thought, but her conscience was clear. The fate of his marriage was between him and his wife.
Pouring more whiskey in his glass Mr. Newland asked, “Do you know why men drink?”
Eleanor shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest.”
“We drink to celebrate. We drink to gain courage. We drink to the beauty, good nature and fidelity of our wives.” Tossing the glass at the fire he shouted, “I can’t do that tonight!”
Eleanor flinched as the glass shattered and the fire flared. Backing away from him, she said, “Why have you called me here?”
Reaching into the pocket of his smoking jacket, Mr. Newland pulled out a small pistol. “I wanted to see you face to face. That’s what gentlemen do in these sorts of situations. We face our enemies, our rivals. A gentleman never slinks around like a coward behind another man’s back.”
Stay still, she thought. No sudden movements. “Is that what you think I am, a coward and a rival?”
“I think you’re abhorrent. I think you’re a freakish ghoul who wishes she were a man.”
Eleanor calculated how many steps it would take to get to the door. “Trust me when I tell you that’s the last thing I wish. I’ve no interest in being anything other than what I am.”
Mr. Newland stroked the barrel of his pistol, toyed with the hammer. “It’s a shame duelling has gone out of fashion here in the East. These days, dishonest men die such ignominious deaths. They get shot in the back in stairwells or alleyways, sometimes in the best parts of town. They never see it coming. Where is the romance, the honour in that? Tell me, Miss St. Clair, what do women do when they wish to punish their enemies? Sharpen their scissors? Pick a poison? Cast a spell?”
She felt threatened, but his head was muddled, his hands shaky. His aim would be poor. “Do you intend to shoot me, Mr. Newland?” she asked.
Tucking his pistol back in his pocket, he pointed his fingers at her instead. Squinting one eye, he took aim and pulled an imaginary trigger. “Satisfying as it would be,” he said, “it’d leave too big a mess. The cleanup alone would take hours. Not to mention that the scandal that’d follow would be incredibly appalling. Tedious. Boring. I favour more elegant means of revenge.”
Now he was toying with her, behaving as if he were holding the winning hand. She realized whatever he had planned wasn’t going to play out here. “If you’re not going to shoot me, then I really must be on my way,” she said. “I’m expected elsewhere.”
Newland glanced at the clock and smiled. “By all means,” he said waving Eleanor out of the room. “Leave my house, you cunt. Enjoy your evening.”
Beatrice was sequestered in a small room adjoining the hotel’s Grand Ballroom. The space was usually reserved for the storage of music stands and other paraphernalia used by the house orchestra, but Adelaide, with Mrs. Stevens’ blessing, had commandeered it for use as a dressing room. After the room’s original contents had been moved elsewhere, other items were shuttled in one by one to accommodate Beatrice’s needs—a full-length mirror, a clothing rack, a folding modesty screen, a table for accoutrements, two slipper chairs and a large, overstuffed fainting couch. Beatrice would’ve been happy to dress in Judith’s suite and make her way to the ballroom from there, but Adelaide had insisted she take the room, saying, “The mystery dissolves the minute you’re seen off the stage.”
Staring at a porcelain vase that was overflowing with yellow roses, Beatrice picked up the card that’d accompanied them. WITH BEST WISHES AND HIGH REGARD. JUDITH AND ALDEN DASHLEY. The flowers were beautiful and perfect and smelled divine and it’d been awfully kind of Judith and her husband to send them, but their presence made Beatrice feel as if she were an ingénue on opening night rather than a participant in a scientific presentation. She only hoped she could live up to everyone’s expectations.
She, Adelaide and Dr. Brody had finished their preparations a good hour before the event was supposed to start. The stage was set, the spiritoscope was in good order, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself from asking, “What will we do if no spirits come forth?”
“Don’t say such a thing!” Adelaide had exclaimed, making a sudden gesture as if she were spitting something foul from her mouth. Her Gypsy roots were showing.
Dr. Brody had responded in a more practical fashion. “You can tell them of the supernatural experiences you’ve had in the past couple of weeks. I’ve no doubt the audience would find it highly informative.”
“Pish!” Adelaide had said. “Isn’t there something we can do to assure at least one ghost will show up? Surely there’s some way you can entice them to appear?”
Beatrice had forced a smile and said, “I’ll try.”
The answer she’d really wanted to give was the one she imagined Eleanor would have offered. It doesn’t work that way. Why had she even brought up the possibility of there not
being any ghosts? The scrubber girls were here, there and everywhere—in the water closets, in the dining hall, in the corridors—one of them was bound to make an appearance. She guessed she was nervous, and unsettled by the frightening run-in she’d had with Mr. Palsham in the park. The full weight of what had happened was only now sinking in. What if he’d not let go of her? Had he meant to do her harm? Was his the face she’d seen last night in the fire? She decided it was best not to mention it to Adelaide, at least not until the lecture was over.
Adelaide had taken her hand and led her to the little room so she could get dressed at her leisure and settle her nerves. But once she had cinched, buttoned and pinned Beatrice into Minnie Stevens’ ball gown, she’d been quick to take her leave. Had Beatrice somehow offended her? Was Adelaide tired of her company? Sometimes she wished she could trade places with Adelaide as she was sure she was better equipped to handle this sort of thing. She was growing tired of constantly wondering if she was out of her depth.
The room had no clock and Beatrice didn’t own a watch, so every few minutes she’d poke her head out the door that led to the wings behind the ballroom’s stage to ask Adelaide for the time. The last time she’d done it, Adelaide had impatiently stalked to the door and announced, “It’s seven thirty.” Her tone was decidedly frosty. “The audience will be arriving soon. I don’t want there to be any chance of anyone seeing you until the lecture begins. Not even the slightest glimpse between these curtains. Don’t be such a child. Get back in there and close the door. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
She tried to do as Adelaide said, but when she couldn’t get the elaborate headdress to sit correctly on her head, she decided it was best to fetch Adelaide to help. Slowly opening the door to the wings, she looked to see if Adelaide was close by. It was then she caught a glimpse of Adelaide and Dr. Brody entwined in an intimate embrace. She’d known they were fond of each other, but to see them kissing with their bodies pressed together was a blush-inducing shock nonetheless. Thinking better of interrupting the pair, she wondered where Eleanor might be. She’d promised she’d be there before the event started, to recite a spell of good fortune on her behalf. Why hadn’t she arrived yet? Pulling her wrap over her dress Beatrice snuck out of the room and down the long corridor that led to the lobby. She figured so long as she was covered up, no one would guess that she was the Egyptian Sibyl.