CHAPTER 16
The silence was as heavy as a stone dropped right into the middle of the room.
But it was all too brief.
It shattered under the weight of several exclamations, startled gasps, and knowing snickers. Lord Jasper sat very still. I couldn’t read his expression. Xavier stood abruptly, neck flushed and mouth hanging open. His mother was fanning herself vigorously, making strangled sounds. Elizabeth had tears in her eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at Tabitha, but I knew Caroline looked both solemn and pleased with herself. Colin was cursing under his breath. Mother shivered delicately and lifted a trembling hand to her brow.
“Where am I?” she murmured, preparing to swoon. There were some who believed that a medium had no control over her actions when the spirits took her over. I knew for a fact that particular argument wouldn’t be enough to save us. Already glares were heating, noses were lifting up with apparent disgust. No one liked to be taken for a fool, especially not the peerage.
As Mother let herself go boneless, Colin marched across to catch her, lifting her up in his arms. It was all very dramatic. And still not nearly enough to save us. I finally collected myself enough to jump out of my chair, snatch Mother’s best dress from the floor, and hurry after them. We left a cacophony of voices behind. There was nothing people liked more than a scandal, especially one they’d witnessed themselves. Mother stirred, lifting her head.
“Damnation.”
We practically ran up the stairs and down the hallway. Colin didn’t set my mother down until we were at the door to our rooms. We poured into them so suddenly it was a wonder we all fit through the doorway.
“What are we to do?” I whispered.
“Whatever it takes,” Mother hissed, whirling to glare at me. I flinched. “Who let that stupid chit light the lamp anyway? Why didn’t you stop her?” She let out a howl of rage and tossed a nearby china pot across the room. It smashed into the wall, dripping cold tea down the silk paper to puddle on the carpet. She clenched her teeth. “It can be fixed,” she said suddenly. She was still half-undressed but she didn’t seem to have noticed. Or she didn’t care.
My teeth chattered together even though I wasn’t cold. Everything had changed tonight. There was no going back.
“Is Lord Thornwood my—”
She cut me off with a withering look. “Oh, Violet. Not now.”
“What do you want to do?” Colin asked. “Shall I fetch Lord Jasper?”
She looked disgusted. “Idiots, the pair of you. We have to leave.”
“First thing in the morning?”
“Right now. As soon as the guests have gone to their beds.”
“Won’t that condemn us further?” I bit my lip. “And how will I get a chance to speak to Lord Thornwood?” If he was my father, as he must be, wouldn’t he want to talk to me too? And I had a hundred questions for him already … did I have any siblings? Grandparents?
“Forget him.” She grabbed her dress from me. “I won’t stay here and have those uptight old windbags look down their noses at me. As if they’re better than me. We leave tonight. Get your things.”
We waited until the house was quiet, broken only by the soft hush of the wind at the windows and the ticking clock in the hall. It took some time before the conversations in the parlor died and even longer before we stopped hearing footsteps outside our door. Half the guests were finding reason to walk down this particular hallway, hoping for another tidbit of gossip. Someone knocked once tentatively but we held our breaths and didn’t answer.
Colin had snuck out and was waiting for us outside, at the end of the long drive, with the hired carriage. He’d had to walk all the way to the village to find one without alerting the Rosefield grooms. The horses nickered softly, tossing their heads. I glanced behind us when the front door swung shut, half-expecting candles to be lit at the windows, curious faces pressed to the glass, or at least Mr. Travis with his habitual late-night pacing. They stayed dark, unblinking. I shivered, wondering what Rowena would do now.
“Violet, do hurry up.”
Colin tossed our bags up onto the top. Mother was about to climb the step into the carriage when a figure shot out of the darkness and grabbed her hand fervently. Colin was about to shove it forcibly back when Mother fluttered her eyelashes and smiled demurely. I smothered a groan. Colin fell back to stand behind me, looking just as resigned.
“Lord Marshall,” Mother said softly.
“My dear,” he said, bringing her ungloved fingers to his lips in a way that made me grimace. He was handsome enough, I supposed, even with gray at his temples. But there was something about the way he moved that I didn’t like and didn’t trust. He was wealthy though, even wealthier than Lord Jasper, and that was all that mattered to my mother.
“I’m afraid we have been called back to town,” she said.
“I understand. They simply do not appreciate the delicacies of your … talents.”
“Exactly.” She tilted her head so that her neck was better displayed in the moonlight, pale and fragile as an orchid’s stem. “I shall miss our little talks.”
He bowed. “Remember me,” he murmured, pressing a card into her palm. “Should you desire a change in circumstance.”
“I am flattered.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, my lord.”
He turned and left, lighting a cigar as he went. He didn’t even glance at me. Mother tapped the card over her lips, consideringly. Then she disappeared into the carriage.
I wrinkled my nose. “I do not like that man.”
Colin grunted an agreement before following me into the carriage and shutting the door behind him. The seats were worn and the curtains faded, but at least it was clean and didn’t smell like someone’s unwashed coat or travel luncheon. Mother didn’t speak, only brooded and stared out of the window. I brooded just as fiercely. I hadn’t wanted the responsibility of helping Rowena, but now that I had it, I worried about how I was supposed to make any progress back in London. We’d likely never be invited to travel again, and certainly not back to Rosefield. And there was still the mystery of Mr. Travis to consider. What if he did something untoward while I was away? Or Peter? I’d never had a chance to witness his temper for myself.
Not to mention the fact that the story of Mother’s exposure and ruin would reach London soon enough. And then what would we do? Mother’s threat of sewing for long, arduous hours was very real. Worse yet, I didn’t think I actually sewed well enough to even have that option. And what of Colin? Where would he go? Would we be separated?
I was fretting so much that at first I thought it was only the gathering mist, or the stress of the last few days, that was making the shadows into faces. After all, Mother hadn’t once turned away from the window and her morose sulking.
The view from my window was decidedly different.
The mist thickened until everywhere I looked were ghostly faces and pale hands scrabbling at me. Some raced along on equally pale horses; others just hovered on the other side of the glass. There was a lady with curls piled high and a line of blood at her throat like a red satin ribbon; another one in a tattered, moth-eaten wedding gown; a man in a beaver hat; another with a sword he waved about quite uncaring as to which unsuspecting spirit he might cleave in two. They merely fell apart like rain, and then came back together again. We were a ghostly caravan, our single hired carriage and a parade of frantic spirits keeping pace.
My expression must have altered considerably since Colin’s eyes bore into mine, willing me to glance away from the hazy spirit-crowds. When I did, his gaze latched onto mine.
“Look at me,” he mouthed so as not to draw Mother’s attention, but a flash of white had me turning back to the window, which was now fogged with ghostly hands. Colin’s boot kicked my ankle. Hard.
“Ow,” I mouthed back, rubbing the bruise.
“Only me,” he whispered. “Look only at me.”
Mother never once took notice of our silen
t conversation. Colin’s eyes turned to silver when the faint light from the driver’s lamp caught them. The pupils were black and large, like calm water at midnight. The carriage rocked softly as we made our way down the bumpy road. The spirits faded away.
I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until Colin murmured my name. My cheek was pressed against his shoulder. We pulled up to the station and dragged our trunks behind a copse of cherry trees to wait until morning. We didn’t speak, not one of us, but Colin passed me a penny dreadful, creased from being in his pocket. When I opened it to read, a pink rose petal fell out, the same as I’d found on my pillow.
I kept it in my pocket on the train ride the next morning. We arrived in London early, negotiating the foggy London streets in another hired coach. The coal smog was thick, pressing against the narrow houses, against the pubs, against the thin trees. Flower girls stood at the corners with handfuls of violets. The men rolled out their carts, selling muffins, baked potatoes, and meat pies. As we passed by Hyde Park and Mayfair, the walkways were lined with maids parading pampered pets, little fluffy white dogs mostly and the odd pug, but a few cats as well, and even one disgruntled monkey.
Our street was still relatively quiet, the curtains drawn tight behind every window. Colin carried our bags in as the horses clopped away. The fog was thicker here, filling up every empty space, every alleyway and crevice. It was hard to breathe. Mother sailed upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. Colin and I sat in the shadowy parlor and stared at each other. I’d never felt so tired in my entire life.
“What are we going to do now?” I scrubbed my hand over my face. “I can’t think what will happen.”
We were very aware of the unnatural silence coming from Mother’s room.
“It’s going to be bad, Vi,” Colin said.
“I know.”
Mother didn’t come down for the entire day, not for tea or even for dinner. The plate of beef stew and apple pudding was still outside her door where she’d left it hours before. It was cold, congealed, and untouched. I admit I didn’t have much of an appetite either, but I forced myself to drink tea and eat some bread and butter with a slice of cheese.
I reread Northanger Abbey for the eighth time to pass the hours. When I next looked up, it was to the concerned face of an old woman, thin and transparent as old paper. I yelped and fell off the edge of the bed with a thump. She yelped back in that faint ghostly manner, her eyes widening in alarm.
“Oh!” I snapped peevishly, crawling up onto the feather tick and pulling the quilt over my head. “Go away!”
I’d had quite enough of spirits. How was one expected to think rationally and carry on a normal conversation when one was constantly dealing with this sort of interruption? I didn’t know how the other mediums managed and I simply didn’t care. I didn’t want to be a medium.
I sulked until I fell asleep. When I woke from my rest, I wrote Elizabeth a long letter. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, beyond being thoroughly vexed with me. And then I wrote to my father. I couldn’t help myself. I hardly knew how to start, and if it would even be read. Surely he was as curious as I was?
Dear Lord Thornwood,
It is clear you are my father. I am certain this comes as a surprise to you, as it did me. I wondered if you would call on us or if I might visit? I understood my father to be dead, you see, and I would dearly love to know if I have any brothers or sisters and if I get my love of butter tarts from you? Mother can’t abide the taste. I know this is very untoward but surely, in this matter, family might be more important than etiquette?
Sincerely,
Violet
I read it over three times before signing my name. And then I deliberated over signing Violet Willoughby, which felt natural, or Violet St. Clair, which wasn’t exactly the truth but could have been, had circumstances been different.
I wanted to ask if I might come and stay with him, but I didn’t.
The next morning I was desperate to get out of the house. It wasn’t normal for my mother to be so silent when a crisis was brewing. A long walk in the fresh air seemed a prudent escape; only when I opened the front door, there was a shout and then something sailed past my head. A half-rotted cabbage landed with a splat on the floor of the crooked hall. I blinked at it, utterly confused. Why was it raining salad?
I turned to see a lady with a pram, two men with long whiskers, and a gap-toothed eight-year-old girl. The girl grinned and lobbed another missile, this one apparently a handful of squashed radishes. I slammed the door shut before we had a cold buffet in the front corridor. The shouts grew louder, denied their target. If I had better aim I’d have opened the door and tossed it all right back at them. But with my luck I’d hit the sleeping baby or an innocent old grandmother out for her morning constitutional. And then we’d be dragged through the streets for certain.
Dread uncurled in the pit of my stomach.
“Is that cabbage?” Colin asked, coming out of the dining room. Listening to the raised voices, he reached for the doorknob, frowning. I caught his hand.
“Don’t.”
“Whyever not?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ll get a rotted meat tart in the eye for your trouble, that’s why.”
“Miss Willoughby?” Marjorie interrupted timidly.
“Yes, Marjie?”
“I thought you should see this.”
She handed me the daily newspapers, which were still warm as she’d just finished ironing them to dry the ink. She chewed her lower lip as Colin leaned in to read the scandal sheet over my shoulder.
It has come to my attention, dear Reader, that a certain Mrs. W— has been recently exposed as a fraudulent medium. She was discovered in a shocking state of dishabille at an influential country house party. Sources say she fled the scene under cover of darkness, with her disgraced daughter. This is yet another scandal in an increasing blight against the good name of the Spiritualist Society. We must be ever vigilant and on our guard against such trickery. Having been privy to the true talents of our day, this writer, for one, was not taken in by Mrs. W—’s decidedly showy tactics.
Mother, of course, chose that moment to come down the stairs for the first time since we’d arrived back home. She was wearing one of my precious new dresses, yellow with white stripes on the underskirt. Even with her trim figure, the dress did not quite fit right, so she had left off her stays. Her cleavage was rather startling. She raised her brows at my double-take.
“Well, since I can’t go about in half mourning any longer, why shouldn’t I have some fun? I’ve had precious little of it for myself, haven’t I?” She came the rest of the way down the steps, movements graceful and steady, speech precise. Still, the scent of rosewater wasn’t enough to cover the sherry fumes. Her eyes glittered, then narrowed.
“What on earth is going on?” she demanded peevishly when the uproar swelled and pushed through the cracks at the door and window. It sounded a little as if we’d removed to a cottage by the sea. I tried to fold the newspaper away discreetly but the crinkle gave me away.
“That’s today’s paper?” She held out her hand as I winced. “Let me see.”
“Mother …”
She waggled her fingers impatiently. “Now, Violet.”
I handed it over slowly, along with a stack of canceled dinner invitations. Colin and I were frozen as we watched her skim the dark print. Her lips tightened, white lines forming little brackets. When she flung the door open, the light fell over her like a painting of an Amazon warrior. Her hair streamed behind her and rage made her face pale, her cheeks pink. The mob paused for a full moment, baskets of stinking produce temporarily forgotten. The door was smeared with pie crust, moldy cheese, and a single slimy leaf of lettuce trembling in the wind.
“You know nothing!” she yelled at them.
“Liar!” someone shouted, and a tomato landed on the second step, smashing into pulp like a bloodstain. I pushed the door shut with a resounding slam before either side could
let loose with another volley. Several more fruits thumped, like the knock of a well-bred visitor.
“Mother, maybe we—” I put a hand on her arm but she shook me off with a snarl. All the other sounds receded, the angry shouts, the carriages passing, the rain of vegetables.
There was only my breath, the push of my blood in my veins, and the crack of my mother’s hand across my face.
Colin swore. My cheek stung, tears scalding my eyes though I determined long ago not to let them fall. She pushed passed me, whirling toward the parlor, pages wrinkling in her hands as they formed trembling fists. We were frozen, watching her come apart.
“Dried-up old hag,” she shouted. “How dare she write about me in such a manner.” Her anger was punctuated by a thump as something wet flung against the window, rattling the panes. “Ingrates!” She tossed the paper away with one hand, hurling a candlestick at the wall with the other. The silver left a dent in the wallpaper. “Louts and filthy know-it-alls!”
She threw a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess next, followed by a shell-encrusted lampshade, a teacup, and then the entire teapot. Dark liquid rained over the settee, staining the cushions.
“Judge me, will they? Had every bloody thing handed to them, didn’t they? Never worked a bloody hour in their lives.”
Porcelain and glass glittered on the floor and over the tables. She shrieked and knocked an occasional table onto its side. Colin and I backed away quietly, me cradling my still-throbbing face, and a wide-eyed Marjorie huddled in the shadows under the stairs.
CHAPTER 17
I stayed out of her way for the rest of the morning. She stayed in the ruined parlor and drank sherry and threw every breakable she could find at the wall. My face still ached but the redness had faded.
When the knock sounded at the door, we all froze. It was the last sound we’d expected to hear. Surely no one would come calling now that we were social pariahs to be shunned and publicly ridiculed. It was unthinkable—and not to be trusted.