The Spiritualist Read online

  “Peter’s spoken of you a good deal,” I said.

  “Has he?”

  “Yes. He believes you’re a miracle worker.”

  Michel Jourdain laughed. The laugh turned quickly into a cough, and he muttered an apology and reached for a handkerchief, pressing it to his mouth, and I realized that the delicacy of his face was frailty, the translucence I’d seen that of illness, though there was something in his manner that put the lie to that impression as well. Some odd vitality—I thought perhaps it was of a kind I’d seen in consumptives before, that ceaseless anxiety to live a brief life fully, no matter the cost.

  “You should rest,” Peter said anxiously.

  Michel only shrugged and tucked the handkerchief away. As if Peter had said nothing, he smiled at me and said, “A miracle worker, eh? Ah, Madame, I hope I can live up to such a reputation. But in spite of what my good friend says”—a smiling glance at Peter—“I’m not a miracle worker. It’s only the truth you’ll find here.”

  Benjamin said, “Peter has her well in hand, isn’t that so, Evelyn? Like any good wife, she’s vowed to see whatever truth her husband wishes her to see.”

  “Ah. This is your first time at a circle, Madame? Are you a skeptic?”

  I glanced at Peter. “It’s as Mr. Rampling says. Tonight I’ve promised my husband not to be.”

  “How you must love him then, to do as he bids you. But I shouldn’t expect too much, eh? First sittings rarely produce manifestations. Of course the rest of us have met several times before, so perhaps the spirits will overlook a newcomer.”

  “How disappointing,” I said, though his words hardly surprised me. I’d expected some excuse as to why there might be no spirit visit tonight. I expected to see through his “miracles” easily, but for Peter’s benefit—and my own—I intended to say nothing of my suspicions. I would feign awe if for no other reason than my husband’s wish that I be impressed.

  “Do you know the rest of our party?” Michel asked me, and when I shook my head, he offered his arm and said, “Then you must allow me to introduce you.”

  Peter nodded his acquiescence and let Michel Jourdain lead me toward the table, where the others were gathering.

  “You have a strange accent, Mr. Jourdain,” I ventured. “I can’t place it—”

  “I’m from New Orleans,” he said.

  “You’re a Creole?”

  He smiled. “How clever of you to have guessed my secret. Now you must tell me one of your own.”

  “I have no secrets, Mr. Jourdain.”

  “Non? Ah, but everyone has secrets, Madame, hmmm? I would think it especially true of women who find themselves so quickly in a better world.”

  I was startled—his words were so honeyed, said with a smile, a flirtatious glance, that I wasn’t certain I’d heard the intimation within them. I was suddenly off balance. I realized with discomfort that my dismissal of him had been too quick. He was more clever than I had first thought.

  But then we were at the table, and he was introducing me to the rest of the party, and I noticed that they were all from the higher levels of society, all of them dressed in the best clothes and jewels, all monied. Of course they were; this was Dorothy Bennett’s home, after all, and the Bennetts were one of the best families in New York City. To capture Dorothy Bennett had been quite a coup for a man like Michel Jourdain. I wondered how he had accomplished it and found myself reluctantly impressed at the feat. No one knew better than I how difficult it was to seize the interest of society—or to maintain it.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Robert Dudley,” he was saying as he gestured to a sandy-haired man with a sallow-faced, rather disapproving-looking wife. “Dudley’s searching for his brother, who was lost in Mexico during the war. We’ve achieved some success in finding his spirit.”

  “Under Michel’s expert tutelage, of course,” Robert Dudley said, taking my hand. “How pleased we are to meet you at last.”

  His wife smiled, though it scarcely improved her dour face. But her voice was kind. “You must call me Grace, my dear. We’ve so looked forward to your visit. Peter is such a favorite of ours.”

  “Jacob Colville,” a tall, darkly mustachioed man introduced himself. “Welcome, Mrs. Atherton.”

  “Colville lost his wife this past spring,” Michel told me.

  “How terrible.”

  “I miss her,” Jacob said. “But how can I complain when she experiences such peace now?”

  “You’ve contacted her, then?”

  “Oh yes. Quite often.”

  I smiled. “How reassuring that must be for you, Mr. Colville.”

  “Very,” he said. “I must say, Mrs. Atherton, I’m surprised to see you here. I’d thought you must be a doubter. I’m happy to see I’m wrong. Atherton is a lucky man indeed to have a wife with such an open mind.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt, but still I kept my smile. “I hope any doubts I have might be proved away.”

  “You’ve come to the right place for it,” said a small, dark-haired woman with a demure prettiness whose name I learned was Sarah Grimm. The diamonds in her dangling earrings twinkled to match the light that shone in her eyes when she looked at Michel Jourdain. “Michel is the preeminent medium in the city.”

  Michel inclined his head humbly. “You place me too high.”

  “Not at all,” she said, and I heard the echo of Peter’s reverence in her voice. She fingered the heavy ruby brooch at the bertha of her deep rose-colored gown as if she wanted to tear it off and press it into his hands, and I had the distinct impression that it wouldn’t have been unusual for her to do such a thing. “Mrs. Hardinge and Mrs. Fox cannot come close to matching you, and I’ve seen them both. I know.”

  “Sarah’s right about that.” A man with curling red hair set his arm around her shoulders and gave her an intimate smile. “You’re in for a treat, Mrs. Atherton. The world that communicates with us through Jourdain is a remarkable one.”

  “It has nearly made Maull put aside his Fourierist tendencies, hasn’t it?” Robert Dudley teased.

  The redheaded man flushed and then raised his chin proudly. “On the contrary, Dudley. Rather it has inflamed them. To know there is a chance at a world where love is the supreme ruler—”

  “Wilson,” Sarah admonished quietly.

  He flushed again and looked at me. “My pardon, Mrs. Atherton. Sometimes my… passions… run away with me.”

  “You must all call me Evelyn,” I said. “And please, don’t apologize. I’m exhausted with the fashion of boredom. It’s refreshing to see enthusiasm, whatever the reason.”

  “I’m Wilson Maull,” he said with a smile. “And you are indeed as charming as Atherton has always said you were.”

  Another surprising statement. My husband came up beside me, Benjamin in tow. Peter settled his hand rather possessively at my waist and said, “I confess it was her charm that captured me. You must watch out for Maull, my dear. He has quite a reputation for pretty women. I would hate for him to steal you away.”

  “Consider me on notice.” Maull smiled at Peter’s gentle teasing.

  My husband’s words were so unexpected, and the way he pulled me close so out of character, that I could only gape at him. He had ignored me for months. The Peter I was looking at now reminded me of the man I’d married, a man I’d nearly forgotten existed. My hope for this night returned with an almost painful acuity.

  “Let’s begin,” Dorothy called out breathlessly as her attendants settled her in the large armchair that had been pushed up to the table, along with an embroidered footstool for her feet. When they hovered around her, tucking and clucking, she waved them away. Her eyes were sparkling now. The pain I’d seen in her face earlier was gone.

  Michel said, “Shall we?” and motioned to the table, and they hurried to it like ants to a much anticipated picnic. Then he turned to me. In a low voice, he said, “As our special guest, I’d be honored if you would sit beside me.”

  There wasn’t a society event I’
d ever attended that seated husbands next to wives, and usually I would not have hesitated. But Peter’s mood was so strange that I looked uncertainly at him. “Well, I—”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, releasing me, though he was frowning, and he said nothing more as Michel led me to the table.

  “We must have positive and negative influences, alternating, as in electricity,” Michel said, and I noticed that the others were arranging themselves so—alternately, male, female. He pulled out a chair for me, and as I sat, he took the one beside, with Dorothy on his other side, and Peter next to her. Benjamin sat across from us. Grace Dudley went around the room, turning the gas down until it was nothing but a faint glow about the perimeter, and most of the light came from the candles on the table. Michel leaned close and said, “Is there someone in the spirit world you wish to contact?”

  I laughed. “Me? No. No one.”

  “A pity. It would help.”

  “How so?”

  “The spirits sense hesitation. Any unwillingness to believe—”

  “I’ve promised not to be a doubter tonight, Mr. Jourdain.”

  He said nothing, only looked at me so thoughtfully I had to turn away, and then he said, “Very well. Let’s begin.”

  He motioned to the candles, and those on either side of the table blew them out. I had not realized how blazing their light had been until it was gone. Now the room was in shadow but for the soft glowing gaslight. My uneasiness returned, though I knew that this was only a show; there was nothing true in it.

  “You must take your gloves off, Madame,” Michel whispered to me, and when I looked at him in surprise, he explained, “The energy must flow through us, with no impediment, eh?”

  When I looked around the table I saw that everyone was taking hands, and no one wore gloves. It seemed indecent, but when I caught Peter’s glance, he nodded curtly, and I peeled mine off, though they fit so tightly it took some doing. Then Robert Dudley, who sat on my other side, took my hand. To touch strangers like this—skin on skin—was not done, and I found it uncomfortably intimate, though it was vaguely titillating as well. The atmosphere felt charged with anticipation, like the air before a lightning storm, and when Michel Jourdain took my other hand, I jumped—it seemed I felt that charge leap between us. He grasped my bare fingers tightly, and pressed his arm against mine in a fashion that was far too familiar.

  He said, “Let us pray for divine guidance in our search tonight.”

  In the time it took me to understand him, there was a rustle of movement; the others bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Their lips moved silently in prayer. I bowed my head with them.

  Then Dorothy began to sing, and gradually, one by one, the others joined in. Though I knew the tune—it was a familiar hymn—I didn’t recognize the words.

  “Oh, the gracious good plantation

  Over there!

  Shining like a constellation

  Over there,

  Holy with a consecration

  From all tears and tribulation

  From all crime and grief and care

  To all uses good and fair

  Over there!”

  The moment it was over, Sarah Grimm began another hymn, and so it went, the others singing and me staying silent, for at least three more songs. I glanced over at Michel Jourdain. He was not singing. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had gone deep and even, almost as if he were asleep. But there was a strange alertness about him as well, as if he were aware of everything around him.

  The songs ended. Jacob Colville said, “Dear God, who watches over everything in each sphere, watch over us tonight, and bless our communications. Amen.”

  Michel Jourdain’s fingers twitched. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused and glassy, like those of lecturers I’d seen in mesmeric trance, though his voice was strong and vibrant.

  “In the name of Almighty God, I pray the spirit of Elizabeth Atherton to communicate with me.”

  I’d expected more elaborate exaltations, more showiness. Such directness caught me off guard. In my imaginings of spirit circles, I’d pictured them more like P. T. Barnum’s entertainments, with his dramatic pronouncements: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we view the impossible! The undeniable proof of the afterlife! Watch, as the spirit appears!”

  The others were so quiet I could hear the soft hiss of gas, the rustle of a skirt, breathing. The air went taut with waiting.

  But there was nothing.

  Michel Jourdain said, “Almighty God, permit the spirit of Elizabeth Atherton to come to me.”

  Again, silence. Then one of the gaslights went out.

  I jumped, startled despite myself. Michel went rigid. His fingers flattened on mine as if to hold me in place. “Is that a spirit come to talk with me?”

  Silence.

  “Answer me if you be a spirit.”

  Another light went out. Now I was amused—here was what I’d expected. The drama of the unknown, the showmanship of the trick. I was not my father’s daughter for nothing. I found myself searching the darkness for Michel’s confederate. Then I reminded myself of why I was here, of my promise to Peter, and I schooled my expression into one of fascinated interest and tried to see my husband’s face in the dark.

  He, like the others, wore an expression that was eerily blank in the half-light. I felt their collective expectation swell like a wave.

  “Is this the spirit of Elizabeth Atherton?”

  I was ready this time for a light to go out.

  RAP RAP RAP.

  I jumped again, and Dudley’s hand gripped mine so tightly it hurt. The raps seemed to shake the walls. The sound was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  “Three raps for yes,” Dudley whispered to me. “The spirit of Peter’s mother is among us.”

  I felt a reluctant admiration for Michel Jourdain’s skill. He was craftier than I’d expected. Even I couldn’t see the strings.

  “Mama?” Peter’s voice, supplicating and soft, like a child’s. “Mama, are you there?”

  I waited for the raps. Instead, there was silence. Then I saw a light—no, three of them. Three small balls of light that hovered on the edge of the room. I stared at them, trying to see beyond to any movement in the darkness, but I could see nothing. The balls moved closer, growing brighter, and then one flew so quickly at the table that I jerked back. It slowed and hovered just above the surface, and then it bounced against it with such a sharp rap that the table vibrated into my fingers.

  I was so busy watching it that I was unnerved when Michel spoke, and my admiration turned to startled respect.

  “I’m here, my dear,” he said, and his voice was feminine and low, not his at all. There was no trace of an accent. When I looked at him, he seemed to change. A softening of his face, a wilting… whatever it was, he seemed no longer to be himself. He tilted his head as a woman does when she’s pleased. The transformation was stunning. He was a man, and one with a very masculine presence, and yet at that moment, he seemed as much a woman as I knew myself to be.

  Rapping, table tilting, musical instruments flying through the air, and the ephemeral touch of spirit hands… these things I’d thought to see. But I’d never expected anything like this. I looked around the table, at the rapt attention of the others. I did not blame them for being fooled—had I been less inclined to doubt, I might have believed him myself.

  “Mama,” Peter said. “I’ve brought Evelyn. Do you see her?”

  “Indeed. I can feel her touch upon my hand.”

  He had captured Elizabeth Atherton’s imperiousness perfectly, that superiority that had colored her voice even to her last hours, when she had leaned helplessly upon my arm, disliking that she needed me, yet unable not to. How had he known that? Had he occasion to see her before her death? Michel Jourdain and Elizabeth Atherton would hardly have moved in the same circles, but perhaps during one of her Reform Society’s fashionable tours to the Five Points, or some downtrodden but morally elevating mission—
/>   “You must say hello to her, Evie,” Peter said quietly.

  How desperate he was that I believe. Feeling foolish, I said, “Mother Atherton?”

  “You must speak up, Evelyn. There is such a fog between us. How hard it is for me to hear you.”

  “She’s come to see if you’re happy, Mama,” Peter said.

  “Happy? Yes, indeed. There is no pain here, my dear. I am unencumbered at last.”

  Eagerly, Peter said, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do, Mama.”

  “You are my dear, good son.”

  “Everything.”

  “Continue to do as Michel directs you, my dear. He is my servant.”

  “I will. I will.”

  “Might I touch you, my dear? Just once, before I go… .”

  Peter said, “Yes. Yes, please”—and leaned forward, as if he could will her to materialize before him. Just as he did, the ball of light rose from the table, becoming brighter until it settled just over Peter’s shoulder. He turned, as if to greet it, and it moved with agonizing slowness until it touched him. His face lit with a smile. “Mother, I can feel you.”

  But as he reached up to touch it, the ball lifted beyond his reach, and then it danced in the air for a moment, beguiling us with its movement before it fell to the edge of the table between Peter and Dorothy. It hit with a sharp, percussive rap. And then, suddenly, there was another flare of light, and a loud crack that hurt my ears, and then a splintering sound in the wall beyond. Michel jerked back, his hand pulled from mine.

  “What was that?” Peter shouted.

  I smelled something smoky and acrid.

  “Grace, turn on the lights!”

  There was the sound of footsteps, and then the gaslight went up, so bright after the darkness that for a moment I was blinded. Then I saw Peter race over to the wall, wrenching a painting from its hook to examine it. I was confused; I had no idea what was happening, or what he was doing. Not until Dorothy said, “Is that a hole in the wall?”

  Peter looked up uneasily. “And in the painting. Someone’s shot a pistol.”