A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(59)

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. . . .”