The Mesmerist(4)

They scurry to and fro, amidst black clouds of smoke belching from the hulking steel trains. Noise and activity is everywhere: the cries from newspaper boys and vendors of every sort, station attendants and passengers disembarking from the trains. It is a constant hum—?a deep, echoing drone that does not let up for one moment.

“Where to now?” I ask Mother. She looks tired. I can see it in her eyes and the sag of her shoulders.

“Outside,” she says, and I follow her through a doorway marked EXIT.

Carriages are everywhere—?lined up at the station terminal and all along the street. Some are fashionable and sleek, pulled by a team of horses, while others are led by only one horse driven by men perched on high seats. Gentlemen in top hats escort ladies in hoop skirts along the broad sidewalks. Mother straightens her shoulders and looks from left to right, as if searching.

“Mother?” I ask.

I am interrupted by the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. A stately coach comes to a stop before us. Two fine black horses stamp and snort. The carriage is deep red and highly polished. An open driver’s seat is positioned in the front, and in the back, a hood to protect travelers from poor weather. My mouth opens in astonishment. I look to Mother. We cannot afford a hired coach.

“It was sent by Balthazar,” she explains with a smile. “He told me to look for his crest painted upon his carriage.”

Crest? Only the truly wealthy and the gentry bear such signs. I look to the carriage again. Burnished into the gleaming red door is a white raven’s head surrounded by a wreath of golden leaves. The black-booted driver takes the reins in hand and, after doing some sort of fancy knot tying, steps out and stands at attention. He doesn’t speak, but takes off his cap and nods, then helps us into the coach.

Once inside, I am amazed by the comfort. The seats are black studded leather and highly padded. There is room for only the two of us, but each side has a large window, plus the one in the front, through which we can see our driver. This Balthazar must certainly be wealthy, I imagine, to afford such a luxury. With a flick of the coachman’s reins, we are off. Crowds of pedestrians mob the streets. There is so much to see, I can barely take it in.

We are on a street called the Strand, which winds its way along the River Thames. I am dazzled by the large buildings and the sights. “This is Charing Cross,” Mother points out, “in the city of Westminster. This will lead us to the West End, where we will meet Balthazar.”

My eyes are drawn to a large open space. A towering column soars skyward, and two fountains shimmer with water. “Trafalgar Square,” Mother says.

The name is familiar, and I recall a lesson from my governess. “Nelson’s Column,” I say proudly. “After Admiral Lord Nelson, who defeated the French at the Battle of Trafalgar.”

“That’s correct, Jess.”

She called me Jess. Mother hardly ever uses my pet name. For a moment I forget our mission, and marvel at the sights before me. Throughout the square, there are several plinths on which stand statues of men in all their military finery: on horseback, brandishing swords, their faces peering out onto the London streets. There is one magnificient building with giant columns in the front and a dome on top. “The National Gallery,” Mother says. “Father and I often—”

She stops short.

“Mother?”

She sniffles and feigns a smile, then clasps my hand. I feel a deep sorrow for the loss she has suffered.

Soon, we arrive on a grand street with fashionable shops and large townhouses. The driver slows, and we turn onto a lane off the main road. Set farther back from the street, a large house looms behind a closed gate. Two men are on either side as if standing sentry. To my surprise, they draw open the massive gate and let us pass. Surely this can’t be where Balthazar lives. The house looks fit for royalty. I look to Mother for a moment, but she is quiet. The carriage slowly makes its way up a long drive of brick squares, leading to a house that is truly a wonder to behold. The lawn is manicured to neat perfection, with several topiaries trimmed and clipped into elaborate shapes—?spirals and winding ribbons; stars and a crescent moon. Stone sculptures stand on the grounds, one of them a female form covered in ivy. Tall chimneys spew streams of wood smoke, which I can smell from within the closed coach. Small turrets and brick towers reach for the sky, and diamond-paned windows sparkle in the late-afternoon light. How can one possibly afford such an estate? Now I am really curious to know what this Balthazar is about.

The horses whinny and snort. Several black-booted men are standing at attention. He has footmen? They approach the carriage and open the doors, then take our bags and lead us into the house. Another man, one whose face looks carved from granite, nods politely. “Welcome to SummerHall,” he greets us. “Please. Follow me if you will.” And with a sweep of his arm, he turns and leads the way inside.

SummerHall, I muse. How lovely. But then it dawns on me again why we are here.



Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!





Inside, Mother shoots me a glance. I can’t fully read her expression, but it seems to be one of anxiety paired with curiosity. I try my best to keep my mouth from gaping as I take in the hall. Two giant marble columns stand at either end. I raise my head to look up. Several chandeliers glitter from a ceiling painted with so many colors and patterns that my head spins. All the objects here look as if they belong in a museum. Ornate paintings hang in gilded frames, busts and small statues sit on pedestals. Persian carpets lie underfoot. I could spend an eternity just looking at the things in the hall, but we come to a stop before a set of closed double doors. The butler pushes them inward without so much as a knock. “Mrs. Cora and Miss Jessamine Grace, my lord,” he announces.