A Great and Terrible Beauty

  Dearest Gemma,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve had a touch of neuralgia but you shouldn’t worry as the doctor says it’s merely the strain of caring for your father and will abate when you are home again and able to help shoulder the burden as a good daughter should. Your father seems to be comforted by the garden. He sits for long stretches on the old bench there. He’s given to fits of staring and nodding off but otherwise is at peace.

  Do not fret about us. I’m sure my shortness of breath is nothing at all. We shall see you in two weeks’ time along with Tom, who sends his love and wishes to know if you’ve found him a suitable wife yet, though I feel certain he said this in jest.

  Fondly,

  Grandmama

  I close my eyes and try to erase it all. “Yes, they’re coming.”

  “You don’t sound terribly excited about it.”

  I shrug. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “Our mysterious Gemma,” Felicity says, appraising me a bit too closely for comfort. “We’ll find out what you’re hiding from us yet.”

  Pippa joins in. “A crazy aunt in the attic, perhaps.”

  “Or a sexually depraved fiend who preys on young girls.” Felicity waggles her eyebrows. Pippa screeches in mock horror but she’s titillated by the very idea.

  “You forgot the hunchback,” I add with a false laugh. I’m widening the distance between us, sending them off to another shore.

  “A sexually depraved hunchback!” Pippa squeals. She is most definitely recovered. We all laugh. The woods swallow our sounds in echoing gulps, but we’ve startled the younger girls across the lake. In their crisp white pinafores, they seem like misplaced loons dotting the landscape. They blink at us, then turn their heads and resume their chatter.

  The September sky is uncertain. Gray and threatening one moment. A patchy, promising blue the next. Felicity lays her head back against the grassy bank. Her hair splays out and around the center of her pale face like a mandala. “Do you suppose we’ll have any fun at Lady Wellstone’s Spiritualist meeting tonight?”

  “My father says Spiritualism is nothing but quackery,” Pippa says. She’s rocking the rowboat slightly with her bare foot. “What is it exactly again?”

  “It’s the belief that the spirits can speak to us from beyond through the use of a medium like Madame Romanoff,” Felicity says.

  We both sit straight up, thinking the same thing.

  “Do you think . . . ,” she starts.

  “. . . that she could contact Sarah or Mary for us?” I finish. Why hasn’t this thought occurred to me before?

  “Brilliant!” Pippa’s face clouds over. “But how will you get to her?”

  She’s right, of course. Madame Romanoff would never call on a pack of schoolgirls. We’ve got about as much chance of communing with the dead as we do of sitting in Parliament.

  “I’ll do the asking, if you’ll help me get to Madame Romanoff,” I say.

  “Leave it all to me,” Felicity says, grinning.

  “If we leave it to you, we’ll end up in the soup, I fear,” Pippa giggles.

  Felicity is up, quick as a hare. With nimble fingers she unties Pippa’s rowboat and sends it out onto the lake with a shove. Pippa scrambles to grab the rope but it’s too late. She’s moving out, ripping open the surface of the water.

  “Pull me back!”

  “That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,” I say.

  “She needs to remember her place,” Felicity says by way of an answer. But she tosses an oar after her anyway. It falls short, bobs on the surface.

  “Help me pull her back,” I say. The loon girls are standing now, watching us in amusement. They enjoy seeing us behaving badly.

  Felicity plops down onto the grass and laces a boot.

  With a sigh, I call out to Pippa. “Can you reach it?”

  She stretches her arm around the side of the boat for the oar just out of reach. She’s not going to make it, but she stretches further to try. The boat tips precariously. Pippa falls in with a yelp and a splash. Felicity and the younger girls erupt in laughter. But I’m remembering the brief vision I had just before Pippa’s seizure, remembering the chilling sounds of splashing and Pippa’s strangled cry from somewhere under murky water.

  “Pippa!” I scream, rushing into the heart-stopping cold of the lake. My hand finds a leg. I’ve got her, and I pull up with all my strength.

  “Grab hold!” I sputter, kicking for shore with my arm around her waist.

  She fights me. “Gemma, what are you doing? Let me go!” She breaks free. The water rises only to her shoulders. “I can walk from here, thank you,” she says, with indignation, trying to ignore the giggles and finger-pointing on the other side of the lake.

  I feel ridiculous. I distinctly remember an impression of Pippa struggling under the water during my vision. I suppose I could have been so panicked, I don’t remember things clearly. At any rate, here we are, both safe and sound except for the dripping. And that’s all that matters.

  “I’m going to strangle you, Felicity,” Pippa mutters as she balances unsteadily in the water. I throw my arms around her, relieved that she’s all right, and nearly pull her under again.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieks, slapping at me as if I were a spider.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “I’m surrounded by lunatics,” she growls, crawling onto the grass. “Now, where’s Felicity got to?”

  The bank is empty. It’s as if she’s vanished. But then I see her disappearing into the woods, daisy crown perched on her head. She walks casually and easily away without so much as a backward glance to see if we’re all right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE HAND-LETTERED MARQUEE OUTSIDE THE ELEGANT town house in Grosvenor Square reads:

  AN EVENING OF THEOSOPHY AND SPIRITUALISM WITH

  MADAME ROMANOFF, GRAND SEER OF ST. PETERSBURG.

  TO HER, ALL THINGS ARE KNOWN.

  TO HER, ALL THINGS ARE REVEALED.

  ONE NIGHT ONLY.

  The London streets are an Impressionist painting of slick cobblestones, orangey streetlamps, well-manicured hedges, and clusters of black umbrellas. Puddles splatter the hem of my dress, weighing it down. We rush for the safety of the open doors, our delicate dress shoes tapping out careful steps on the slick cobblestones.

  The audience shows its breeding. There are men in tuxedos and top hats. Women with their gems and opera gloves. We’re all in our very best dresses. It feels strange and wonderful to be in silks and petticoats instead of our usual school uniforms. Cecily has taken the occasion to show off a new hat. It’s far too old for her and makes her stand out in a glaring way, but as it’s the height of fashion, she’s determined to wear it. Mademoiselle LeFarge is in her Sunday best, a green silk dress with a high, ruffled collar, a green silk bonnet, and a pair of garnet drop earrings, and we make a fuss over her.

  “You look simply perfect,” Pippa says as we enter the imposing marble foyer, brushing past attentive butlers.

  “Thank you, my dear. It’s always important to look your best.”

  Cecily preens, certain she’s been given a compliment.

  We’re ushered through heavy curtains to a conservatory that could easily hold two hundred people. Pippa is craning her neck, inspecting the audience.

  “Do you see any attractive men here? Anyone under the age of forty?”

  “Honestly,” Felicity chides, “you’d only be interested in the afterlife if there were a chance to find a husband there.”

  Pippa pouts. “Mademoiselle LeFarge takes this seriously, and I haven’t noticed you mocking her!”

  Felicity rolls her eyes. “Mademoiselle LeFarge has taken us away from Spence and to one of London’s most fashionable addresses. She could look for Henry the Eighth as far as I’m concerned. Let’s not forget our mission?”

  Mademoiselle LeFarge slides her bulk into a red-cushioned chair and we file in behind her. People
are beginning to get settled. Down in front is a stage with a table and two chairs. On top of the table sits a crystal ball.

  “That crystal ball allows her to make contact with the spirits of the dead,” Mademoiselle LeFarge whispers to us as she reads her program. A gentleman behind us overhears our whisperings and bows his head to Mademoiselle LeFarge.

  “I am compelled to tell you, my good lady, that this is all sleight of hand. Magician’s trickery.”

  “Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken.” Martha jumps in. “Mademoiselle LeFarge has seen Madame Romanoff speak in a trance state.”

  “You have?” Pippa asks, wide-eyed.

  “I have heard about her gifts from a cousin who is very close to a dear friend of the sister-in-law of Lady Dorchester,” Mademoiselle LeFarge asserts. “She is a truly remarkable medium.”

  The gentleman smiles. His smile is kind and warm, like Mademoiselle LeFarge. It’s a pity she’s engaged, for I like this nice man and think he’d make a very lovely husband.

  “I’m afraid, dear lady, dear mademoiselle,” he says, drawing out the word, “that you have been deceived. Spiritualism is no more a science than thievery. For that’s all this is—very skilled dodgers stealing money from the bereaved for a little glint of hope. People see what they want to see when they need to.”

  My heart is squeezed tight in my chest. Is it possible that I see my mother, my visions, only because I want or need to? Could grief’s hold be that strong? And yet, the scrap of cloth. I can only hope I’ll know something for certain by night’s end.

  Mademoiselle LeFarge’s mouth is a thin line. “You are mistaken, sir.”

  “I’ve upset you. My apologies. Inspector Kent of Scotland Yard.” He hands her an embossed calling card, which she refuses to accept. Calmly, he places it back inside his breast pocket. “You’ve come, no doubt, to contact a loved one? A brother or dear departed cousin?” He’s fishing but Mademoiselle LeFarge can’t see that he’s interested in more than her preoccupation with the occult.

  “I am simply here as an observer of the science, and as a chaperone to my charges. And now, if you’ll excuse us, it would seem the séance is about to begin.”

  Men rush along the sides of the room, dimming the lights to a hazy gas glow. They wear high-collared black shirts and sashes of deep red around their waists. A handsome woman in long, flowing robes of forest green takes the stage. Her eyes are rimmed with the blackest kohl and she wears a turban with a single peacock feather. Madame Romanoff.

  She closes her eyes and lifts a hand over the audience as if feeling us. When she reaches the left side of the grand room, she opens her eyes and focuses on a heavyset man in the second row.

  “You, sir. The spirits wish to commune with you. Please, come and have a seat with me,” she says in a heavy Russian accent.

  The man obliges and takes a seat at the table. Madame Romanoff gazes into the crystal ball and falls limp. In this state, she tells the man his fortune. “I have a message for you from the other side. . . .”

  The man onstage, eager and sweaty, leans forward. “Yes! I’m listening. Is it from my sister? Please, is it you, Dora?”

  Madame Romanoff’s voice comes out high and sweet as a girl’s. “Johnny, is that you?”

  A cry of joy and agony escapes the man’s lips. “Yes, yes, it’s me, my dear, dear sister!”

  “Johnny, you mustn’t weep. I’m very happy here, with all my toys to keep me company.”

  We take this in, slack-jawed in wonder. Onstage, the man and his little sister are enjoying a heartfelt reunion, with tears and protestations of undying love. I can barely sit still. I want it to end so that I can take my place with the medium.

  The inspector behind us leans over and says, “Brilliant performance. That man is an accomplice, of course.”

  “How so?” Ann asks.

  “They place him in the audience so that he appears to be an honest seeker, part of the crowd. But he’s in on the game.”

  “Do you mind, sir?” Mademoiselle LeFarge fans herself with her program.

  Inspector Kent bows his head and settles back in his chair. I can’t help liking him, with his wide hands and heavy mustache, and I wish Mademoiselle LeFarge would give him more of a chance. But she’s loyal to her Reginald, the mysterious fiancé, as she should be—even if we’ve never seen him call once.

  After a glass of water, Madame Romanoff takes on several more people. With some she asks questions that seem very broad, but the grieving audience members always rush in to tell her their stories. It seems almost as if she leads them on, getting them to supply the answers without her help. But I’ve never seen a medium at work before and I can’t say for sure.

  Felicity leans over and whispers in my ear. “Are you ready?”

  My stomach is turning flips. “I think so.”

  Mademoiselle LeFarge shushes us. Elizabeth and Cecily eye us suspiciously. Onstage, Madame Romanoff asks for one last candidate. Like a shot, Felicity is out of her seat, pulling me up by the arm.

  “Oh, please, madame,” she says, sounding as if she’s on the verge of tears when she’s really fighting back waves of laughter. “My friend is far too modest to ask for your help. Could you please help a girl reach her dear, departed mother, Mrs. Sarah Rees-Toome?”

  There is a chorus of murmurs and gasps. Every bit of breath has been knocked from me. “That was unnecessary,” I hiss.

  “You want it to be believable, don’t you? Besides, you might get something in the bargain up there.”

  “Girls, sit down at once!” Mademoiselle LeFarge pulls hard on my skirt, trying to anchor me to my seat. But it’s no use. Felicity’s plea has struck a chord with Madame Romanoff. Two of her men are at my side, showing me down the aisle. I don’t know whether to kill Felicity or thank her. Perhaps there is a way to contact my mother as well. My palms go sweaty with the thought that in just a few moments, I may speak with my mother again—even if I have to do it through a medium and the spirit of Sarah Rees-Toome.

  As I mount the small stage, I can hear the rustle of programs, the insect buzzing of whispers mixing with the sighs of the disappointed whose chance to contact the dead is gone, usurped by a red-haired girl whose green eyes are wild with hope.

  Madame Romanoff bids me sit. There is an open pocket watch on the table showing the time to be 9:48. She reaches across the table to cradle my hand in both of hers. “Dear child, you have suffered greatly, I fear. We must all help this young lady find her beloved mother. Let us all close our eyes and concentrate for the aid of this young girl. Now, what is the name of the dearly departed?”

  Virginia Doyle. Virginia Doyle. My throat is parched and tight as I say, “Sarah Rees-Toome.”

  Madame Romanoff swirls her fingers over the glass ball and drops her voice into a lower register. “I call now on the spirit of Sarah Rees-Toome, beloved mother. There is one who wishes to contact you. One who needs your presence here.”

  For a moment, I half expect to hear Sarah tell me to shove off, leave her alone, stop pretending I know her. But mostly, I’m hoping that it will be my mother’s voice I hear next, laughing at my duplicity, forgiving me for everything, even this bit of trickery.

  Across the table, Madame Romanoff’s deep growl grows sweet as prayer song. “Darling, is that you? Oh, how I’ve missed you so.”

  It’s only now that I realize how I’ve been holding my breath, hoping for a chance, waiting for a miracle. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, and I can’t help calling out to her.

  “Mother? Is that you?”

  “Yes, darling, it’s me, your loving mother.” There are a few sniffles from the audience. My mother would never say something so coddling. I throw out a lie to see if it comes back to me.

  “Mother, do you miss our home in Surrey terribly much? The rosebushes out back by the little cupid?”

  I’m begging for her to say, “Gemma, have you gone a bit simple, dear?” Something. Anything. But not this.

  “Oh, I can see it
even now, my darling. The green of Surrey. The roses in our wonderful garden. But do not miss me too much, my child. I shall see you again one day.”

  The crowd sniffles and sighs in sentimental approval even as the lie turns sour in my gut. Madame Romanoff is nothing more than an actress. She’s pretending to be my mother, someone named Sarah Rees-Toome who lives in a cottage with a cupid out back, when my own mother was Virginia Doyle, a woman who never once set foot in Surrey. I’d like to show Madame Romanoff a taste of what it’s really like on that other side, where spirits are not happy to see you. I don’t realize that I’m holding Madame Romanoff’s hand with all my strength, because there’s a sudden flare of light, like the world opening up, and I’m falling into that tunnel again, my rage pulling me down fast.

  But this time, I’m not alone.

  Somehow, I’ve managed to bring Madame Romanoff along, as I almost did with Pippa. I haven’t the vaguest idea how it’s happened, but here she is, bold as day, screaming her head off.

  “Bloody ’ell! Where am I?” Madame Romanoff is Russian all right, by way of Bow’s bells. “Wot kind of devil are you?”

  I can’t answer her. I’m struck dumb. We’re in a dark, misty forest—one I recognize from my dreams. It has to be the same misty woods Mary Dowd wrote about. I’ve done it. I’m in the realms. And they are as real as the screaming little thief next to me.

  “Wot’s that, eh?” She grabs tight to my sleeve.

  There’s movement in the trees. The mist is crawling. They start to come out, one by one, till there are twenty or more. The dead. Hollow-eyed. Pale-lipped. Skin stretched shiny-tight over bone. A woman in rags carries a baby at her breast. She’s dripping wet and strings of slick, green vegetation hang twisted in her hair. Two men stagger forward, arms outstretched. I can see the rounded knob of bone where their hands have been chopped clean off. They keep coming, their mouths all making the same hideous murmur.

  “Come to us. You’ve come to us.”

  Madame Romanoff is shrieking and practically climbing up my side. “Wot the ’ell’s goin’ on ’ere? Sweet Jesus, get me out of ’ere. Please! I’ll never con nobody no more, on me mother’s grave I won’t.”