The lights went down and the curtain opened on their simple tableau. Violet’s mother sat on a curved rococo-revival chair, her back straight, the train of her old-fashioned black bombazine gown trickling to the floor. At the last minute, she’d declared she would wear the turban after all, and its shimmering brocade shone against her graying black hair.
Next to Celine was a table holding an empty glass and a pitcher of water, and Violet was walking to the table as the curtain opened. Violet had dressed in a fashionable dove gray gown, covering her face with a sheer black veil that hung to her waist. In addition, she’d donned a blond wig so that wisps of pale hair occasionally curled below the veil. The wig itched a bit, but the fine, fair hair completed the illusion.
In the advertising for the show—and the word of mouth Mary had begun—it was hinted that Violet must keep her face hidden, because one glimpse of her incredible beauty drove even the calmest gentleman insane. Violet was highly aware of the men in the first two rows contorting themselves to try to look under her veil.
The chandeliers above the audience had been dimmed, and gaslights glowed at the edge of the stage, illuminating Violet and her mother. The smell of packed bodies, wool, and perfume rose like a wall in front of them.
Violet poured her mother a glass of water, keeping her movements graceful, then she looked out at the audience and said, “The countess will open the paths to the spirit world. She must use all her concentration to do this, and so you will confine your questions to me. I will listen to your petitions and decide who she has the greatest chance to reach.”
Violet scanned the audience as she spoke, dividing them into categories—true believers, watchful skeptics, and those who’d come here to be entertained. As usual, only a few hands went up at first, one or two hopeful, one or two from gentlemen obviously out to catch Violet and her mother in a trick.
Violet nodded at one of the hopefuls, a middle-aged woman in black. Violet held up her hand before the woman had spoken more than a few words. “It is difficult, I know,” Violet said, twisting her French to sound as though someone from Saint Petersburg spoke it. “He went too soon, long before his time. In battle, was it?”
The woman nodded, looking surprised. Poor thing. Violet had seen the lady’s bleak expression, coupled with the lock of hair in a brooch on her chest next to an insignia denoting an officer in the French army. She’d lost a son in some colonial war, either in Africa or Asia.
“He was so very far away,” Violet said. “I am sorry.”
The woman’s face crumpled, and Violet’s heart ached for her. There were those who claimed Violet and her mother played upon the grieving to take their money, and Violet didn’t always disagree, but at the same time, she knew that what she and her mother did brought some comfort. This woman, for instance, wanted to make certain her son was all right. He likely had died in much pain, in a distant land, and his mother hadn’t been able to hold his hand when he went. Mothers who had lost sons or daughters had the most haunted looks of all.
Not natural, Violet thought with anger. Mothers shouldn’t lose their children. She thought about Daniel, and pictured the bleak look in his father’s eyes when the news was brought to him.
Violet forced herself to turn from the edge of the stage and continue. “Countess?”
“Yes.” Celine lifted a handkerchief to dab away real tears of sympathy. “I will find him.”
The hall went quiet. Celine closed her eyes, rested her hands on her lap, and went into her trance.
Violet watched her closely, ready to assist at any sign of illness or faintness. Sometimes her mother could render herself unconscious—once, she’d fallen from her chair and struck her head before Violet could catch her, and had bled profusely.
“The veil,” her mother murmured, her breath coming rapidly. “It is parting. I see light, I see . . . ah.”
Celine trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice took on a high-pitched, childlike tone—her spirit guide, Adelaide, a Parisian child of ten. “Do not worry, Madame. I will find him. He is here, and so lonely.”
The mother’s cry rang out from the audience. The young woman sitting next to her—a stranger from the way she’d kept herself as distant as the seats allowed—now patted the woman’s arm comfortingly.
Celine spoke again. This time, her voice was deep, the Russian accent gone, her French flawless, but provincial. From the coast, in a town not far from here, Violet guessed.
“Maman, are you there?”
The woman sprang to her feet, handkerchief clutched to her breast. “Jules? Jules, is it you?”
Celine remained silent until Violet turned and said to Celine in her halting accent, “She wishes to know whether this is her son.”
“Maman,” came the answer in relief, spoken through Celine’s mouth. “I am here, Maman. Do not cry, I beg of you.”
“You are all right? She said you were lonely.”
Violet conveyed the question, and Celine answered. “Lonely for you, Maman. I am worried for you, now that you are alone.”
“I am fine. Really, my darling. I have my friends, and they care for me. But what about you? I can’t bear thinking of you, lying alone . . .”
“The form in the grave is but clay. I have left it far behind and crossed over. Papa is here, and little . . . little . . .”
“Brigitte? Brigitte is with you?”
The hope in the woman’s voice broke Violet’s heart. Celine, she knew, would firmly believe she spoke to the dead soldier called Jules, but Celine was also using the trick—whether consciously or not—of getting the client to supply information they didn’t have.
“Yes, Brigitte is here. She misses you.”
“And I miss her. Tell her that her maman misses her so much. And you, Jules. But you are happy, that is good. One day we will all be together.”
Statements like this always worried Violet, but the woman looked healthy and possibly was too staunch a Catholic to contemplate suicide. She also looked very relieved to learn that her family was all together in the afterlife. If they were taking care of one another, she wouldn’t have to worry about them.
“I must go, Maman. The veil is thin. You have my love . . . my love.” The voice drifted away, and the childlike voice returned. “He has gone.”
The woman sat down, tears on her face. The young woman next to her, less of a stranger now, put her arm around the woman’s shoulders.
The crowd was more eager now to petition Celine to contact those dear to them. Violet sifted through the requests, granting one to a man who needed to apologize to his sister, another to a scared-looking young woman who asked her mother whether she should stay with her stepfather who beat her. The first man’s sister accepted the apology with gracefulness. The second woman’s mother, when contacted, agreed that the stepfather had always been a brute, and the young woman was not obligated to live with him.
The audience grew more excited, happier with every person able to speak to their loved ones and learn answers.
They needed this, Violet had realized long ago. Religious leaders or social rules could not let some people find comfort or relieve guilt, and so they came to Violet’s mother, who gave them what they sought. Celine congratulated herself on her gift, and Violet had long ago decided to go along with it. Violet might not believe, but her mother did, and so did all these people. If Celine could relieve their pain, who was Violet to stand in the way?
Remain detached, Jacobi had always said. You are the messenger, the conduit, not their mentor or friend.
Well, Jacobi had known all about detachment, hadn’t he?
Violet shivered. She gave the signal for Mary to let down the rigging high above the stage, which they’d set into place beforehand. Violet always prepared little phosphorus-coated balls to dance on strings above her mother or above the seats if the proceedings lagged a bit. She didn’t need to as mu
ch tonight, but the tangible evidence of the “veil” never ceased to delight.
As Mary let down the cascade of balls on their wires, heads swiveled upward, people pointed, and some even applauded. The questions had died down, but now a new voice broke through, in English, but with the accent of the Highland Scots.
“So, tell me, Mademoiselle,” the man said, his words tinged with a hint of laughter. “Do ye believe in ghosts?”
Chapter 8
Daniel Mackenzie stood on the floor just below the stage, upright, whole, and definitely not dead.
His gaze pinned Violet into place, and though he didn’t smile, the twinkle in his dark amber eyes held impudence. He wore a suit similar to the one he’d had on the night she’d met him—black coat, ivory waistcoat, Mackenzie plaid kilt. His hair was neatly combed, his face newly shaved, his gloves in place. Violet couldn’t help thinking he’d looked better disheveled, with his hair sticking out and his strong hands uncovered.
Violet realized several frozen heartbeats of silence had gone by, and the audience, Daniel, and her mother awaited her answer.
Her returning breath nearly choked her. “When the veil parts,” she said hoarsely, remembering at the last moment to speak French with a Russian accent, “all manner of things may come through.”
The audience murmured their agreement. Daniel regarded Violet with eyes full of mischief, the sparkle in them rivaling the brightest of the glowing balls above them.
“Ye don’t say. I couldn’t ask a question of me dear old mum, could I? Gone these twenty-four years or so?”
Violet kept staring at him. What was he doing? Daniel had gone hard with anger when Mortimer had suggested she contact his mother in front of the gentlemen in the London house. What was he up to now?
She needed to turn away from him and move on to the next petitioner. But her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t make her feet move.
The audience started applauding, taking up a chant of “Oui, oui.” Over this, Celine, in the voice of the child Adelaide, interrupted. “She is here, Monsieur. She has been waiting for you.”
Daniel’s back was to the audience, and he didn’t hide his amusement when he flicked his gaze to Violet’s mother. “Is she, now? That’s interesting.”
Celine’s voice changed pitch again, sounding more contralto, with rich, velvet tones. “I am so sorry, my son,” she said in perfect English. “I did not know my own mind. I never meant to hurt you.”
Daniel’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s all right, Mum. Don’t you worry about it, now.”
Celine breathed a soft sigh. “Thank you.”
The audience sighed with her.
Daniel winked up at Violet, then he patted the edge of the stage, turned from it, and strolled away, his kilt moving over his backside. Violet watched him as he made his way to an empty chair in the rear of the theatre, speaking congenially to the others in the row until he settled into his seat.
He wasn’t going to leave. He would sit there for the entire show.
And then what? Denounce her? Tell the audience that the countess and princess were confidence tricksters, newly come from London?
Daniel folded his arms, watching Violet, his grin in place. Her mother’s contact with his mother had not impressed him one whit. Violet forced herself to turn away, but her body was shaking, and she could barely stammer an answer to the next person.
Daniel remained in the back row as the performance went on—they were contracted for the full two hours. At any moment, Violet expected Daniel to stand up and declare the whole night to be nothing but flummery, that the audience should demand their money back and never trust Violet and those like her again. He’d tell them what Violet had done to him in London, and that he’d come here with magistrates to cart her off to prison.
But Daniel only watched as Violet talked to petitioners until her throat was dry, her ability to evaluate them evaporating. Fortunately Celine, who noticed nothing wrong, went on speaking to the spirits and conveying what the loved ones wanted to hear.
Violet was exhausted by the time Celine finally drooped back in her chair, her hands falling limp at her sides. “I can do no more,” Celine said in a tired whisper.
The gaslights on the stage flared up once, hissed, and went out. Mary was good at cues.
The audience burst into wild applause. There were cries of thanks, shouts for an encore. Violet signaled for Mary to pull the curtain closed, hiding her mother. Then Violet stepped out in front of the red velvet, her legs shaking.
She immediately looked to the back right of the house, where Daniel had been sitting. But that row was mostly empty, Daniel gone. Maybe he’d been a ghost after all, come to stir her guilty conscience.
The audience started to quiet, waiting expectantly. Violet raised her hands and launched into her rehearsed speech. “Please, the countess has given all she has. She is spent for the night, but she will reappear here on Saturday, after she has rested and meditated. If you wish a private consultation, you must write to the address on the card her maid will hand to you as you leave. I thank you for coming, and the countess thanks you.” Violet jerked around to look through the crack in the curtain, as though someone had called her. “What . . .?” She whirled to face the audience again, her veils trembling. “The countess. Please, you must go. I must . . .”
Violet broke off and scurried back through the curtains. The stage behind them was empty, Mary having long since escorted Celine away.
Violet paused to catch her breath as the fold of velvet dropped closed behind her. Dizzy and dry mouthed, she caught up the half-full pitcher of water, thrust her annoying veils aside, and drank a long draught.
Mr. Mackenzie was alive, and here, unless Violet, in her overwrought state, had dreamed him. Perhaps she’d played so long at spirits that she’d started to believe she truly could see the dead.
Tommyrot. He was alive.
How the devil had he found her? Violet had bought train and boat tickets under a false name, had taken the rooms to let here under still another name, neither of which were Bastien or their personas of the countess and princess. At the boardinghouse, she and her mother were plain Madame and Mademoiselle Perrault, from Rouen, with a maid. Mary kept her own first name, pronouncing it Marie, but no one paid much attention to maids, many of whom were called Marie, regardless.
How did Daniel discover that Violette Bastien and Princess Ivanova were one and the same? Daniel had not seen Celine at the London house, and Violet was always careful to never have their likenesses printed anywhere. Concealing herself behind her black tulle veil had obviously made no difference.
Had Daniel truly come here to have them arrested? Or perhaps to blackmail Violet for his silence? He could not have come to Marseille for any benevolent reason—for that he’d have stayed in England and left her in peace.
Violet wanted to rush to the dressing room, grab her mother and Mary, and run again. Somewhere, anywhere. Maybe to Russia in truth, a place they’d never been.
She made herself swallow a little more water and calmly walk to the theatre manager’s office to secure the takings. She’d learned to collect the money right away, after one unscrupulous manager had disappeared with all the cash one night. Violet counted the money, gave the manager his cut, then stashed their share inside her corset and hurried down the hall to the dressing room at its end.
Celine was there in a soft armchair, truly exhausted. She rubbed her bare forehead. “I should not have worn the turban. The blasted thing is so heavy.”
Her South London accent crept into her English for a moment before she heaved another sigh and reverted to cultured French. “Please, may we go home, Violet? I have such a headache.”
“Of course, Mama. You and Mary go in the carriage. I’ll change my clothes and walk home. It’s not far, and it’s still early.” And if Daniel lingered with consta
bles to arrest Violet for assaulting him, her mother might have a chance to get away.
“You are so good to me.” Those words came often out of Celine’s mouth, in her weary tone, but Violet knew she meant them.
Violet gave Mary the takings to lock away at the boardinghouse. She wasn’t fool enough to walk down the street, even in this fairly safe part of town, with thousands of francs inside her bodice. And if constables were coming, her mother would have the money.
But no one waited to pounce on them outside the stage door. Violet made sure Celine and Mary were safely away in the hired carriage, with no one following them, before she returned to the quiet dressing room, breathing a little more easily. She changed out of her costume, packed their things, including the turban, into a valise, and slipped out the stage door again.
Violet walked down the narrow lane behind the theatre toward the main street, her head down. She now wore a workingwoman’s garb of plain skirt, shirtwaist, and coat, with a flat hat pinned over her simple knot of hair. She might be a typist or a telegraph worker hurrying home after a long, tiring day.
Before she reached the street, a hand landed on her shoulder, and Daniel Mackenzie pulled her back into the shadows of the passage.
Daniel had never seen a woman look so terrified. Violette Bastien stared up at Daniel with dark blue eyes wide with fear. Wariness lurked behind the fear, like that of an animal who has been repeatedly kicked.
Daniel softened his grip on her shoulder. “Easy, lass. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then what the devil are you doing here?” Gone was the French with the Russian tinge, gone was the French itself, even the faintest accent she’d had in London. She sounded English through and through, and not well-bred English. London, south of the river, if he were to guess.