The Mesmerist(11)

I turn to Mother. I am not sure I want to be involved in any of this. But she does not come to my aid. “Let us see this out, Jessamine,” she says, “and then you can decide upon what you wish to do.”

I sigh.

What I want to do, I now realize, is return home and put this awful business behind me.



Mother comes into my guest room as we prepare to leave. “What is happening?” I round on her. “We came here for answers, and now we are being taken elsewhere. I don’t even have proper shoes!”

She clasps my hands. I look into her eyes, which are light green and stand out against her fair skin. “There are many things in this world we cannot control, Jessamine. But we do have choices, and I will support yours, whatever they may be. I promise you.”

And then she kisses me on the cheek. I am surprised at this, as it is something she seldom does, although we love each other dearly. The comforting scent of Cameo Rose puts me at ease. “I know it has been difficult, Jess,” she consoles me, “learning all this so quickly.”

Jess.

“Your father . . . I am sorry I was not able to tell you the truth. It was all done to protect you, my dear.”

“How did he die?” I ask. The question comes quickly, before I even think to ask it.

Mother blinks several times. “Perhaps we should wait on that story, Jessamine.”

Jessamine. She’s all business again. “Mother—”

But we are interrupted by one of Balthazar’s footmen, who arrives to tell us it is time to depart.



The sky is cloudy when we leave SummerHall. The carriage is even grander than the one that arrived for us at the station. The exterior is a lustrous black, free of blemishes or dents. At the front of the coach, two gas lamps are perched on either side to provide light for night driving. The same crest is emblazoned on the doors: a white raven’s head surrounded by a golden wreath. Is this a faerie emblem? I wonder now. I am struck again by the oddness of it all.

The driver pulls a lever, and a set of small steps extend to the ground so we do not have to exert ourselves as we enter the coach. The fabric of the seats is deep blue, bordered with paisley swirls. Fringes and little tassels hang from the doors. There are even foot warmers and pillows. For a moment, the luxury of the coach eases my frustration. I sit beside Mother, and Balthazar takes a seat opposite us.

The ride is comfortable, for the road is laid with tracks. We pass more stately homes, and I look out the window in fascination. On the northeast corner, past Trafalgar Square, a church with a towering white steeple comes into view. Stone steps lead up to massive columns. Balthazar notices my curiosity. “St. Martin-in-the-Fields,” he points out. “Once, there were many fields around this area, hence the name.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

“The human need for penance is strong,” he replies wistfully. “I find it fascinating, this devotion.”

Just as I am about to ask him to explain further, the driver slows and we come to a stop. I look around. The buildings and shops are familiar. “This is Charing Cross,” I say, perplexed.

“Why are we stopped?” Mother asks, peering out the window.

“I am afraid my landau would look quite out of place where we are going,” Balthazar replies. “We will have to travel by bus from here.”

“Bus?” I question. I am ashamed to admit I am enjoying the luxury of the coach.

No one replies, but the driver extends the steps so we can exit. Mother gives me a small smile, as if to say she is sorry for all that is being put upon me.

I do not smile back.



The “bus,” as Balthazar called it, is an omnibus, and looks to be a horrid means of transport. It is a large coach pulled by three draft horses. Several people are inside, sitting perilously close to one another—?some read newspapers; others seem to be asleep. There is a woman clutching her bag tightly to her chest, a man who looks as if he has a very close relationship with gin, and several others who smell as if they could use a bath.

I am shocked to see that the floor is covered with musty straw. Balthazar shoots Mother and me a sympathetic look. A man coughs, and I hold my handkerchief demurely to my nose. I surely would have preferred Balthazar’s landau. I wonder why he cannot simply snap his fingers and have us transported there. After all, he says he is a faerie. Exactly what can a faerie do?

Although there is a chill in the air outside, the cabin is so hot and stuffy, I feel faint. Once again, I sit beside Mother, and Balthazar sits opposite us. Hopefully, the trip will not take too long.

There are people you should both meet.

What people? I wonder.



I awake, startled.

The man across the aisle from me is snoring loudly, and his whiskered mustache blows out with each creaky whistle. I didn’t even realize I had dozed off. I sit up and compose myself. How horrid, I think, falling asleep in this dreadful carriage. Most unladylike.

The man continues to snore like a bellows. He is a very large fellow, and I expect the buttons on his vest to burst at any moment and scatter in the aisle.

I look briefly to Mother, who gazes out the window with a distant air about her. Balthazar pores over a book, his head down. I turn to the man again.

Can I see what he is thinking?

I block out the hot cabin, the sharp odor of someone’s greasy chips, the clatter of the horses’ hooves, and focus all my energy on a spot on the man’s cheek, a red blemish resembling a cluster of grapes. After a moment I feel a tingle in the center of my head.