A Dreadful Splendor
B.R. Myers
Chapter One
London, November 1852
“It’s good you’ve finally summoned me,” I said. “There’s no doubt a spirit torments this house.”
Each grief-stricken face turned my way. I stood in the parlour doorway, gripping the handle of my bag. Despite the blaze of the fireplace and the richly upholstered furnishings, there was no sense of comfort. The heavy drapes were closed, shrouding the room in darkness. The funeral bouquets had begun to wilt, but their scent remained strong, saturating the air with a tired misery.
The matriarch, Mrs. Hartford, sat beside the ornate fireplace. The flames flickered, casting shadows that stretched up the walls like gossamer spirits. A sheer black veil obscured her face, leaving only her chin exposed. Even from across the room I could see a few wisps of white hair. Just like Billy Goat Gruff, Miss Crane would say.
On the other side of the room, a younger woman was perched on the edge of a settee, her silk skirt reaching the floor. Her finger was wound around the end of a long string of pearls, and as she looked me over, she gave the necklace a twist. It was a careless gesture, but she likely had more than one set of pearls at her disposal.
The two gentlemen stood as I entered. So silent was the room, I heard someone’s knees crack. The taller man had an ample stomach and a thick grey mustache. The younger was thin and fair, clothed in an elegant jacket that hung shapelessly off his slight frame. I guessed that our ages might be close. When I nodded to him, he dropped his gaze to stare at the floor.
Good.
The servant offered my card on a small silver tray to Mrs. Hartford. She plucked it up with her spindly fingers and held it close to her eyes. Her jeweled ring and matching bracelet glinted in the fire’s light.
My knuckles tightened around the handle of the bag. This would be the last one, I promised myself. In my mind, I conjured the picture of a room: a bed with a thick quilt, a hot pot of tea waiting on the table, a door with a lock for which only I had the key.
One more and I’d never have to do this again.
“Esmeralda Houghton,” Mrs. Hartford read, the veil fluttering with her breath. “Spiritualist and communicator of the dead.”
I gave a quick curtsy. She returned my card to the tray, her eyes shifting up to the portrait hanging above the fireplace’s mantel. As if on cue, the rest of the family followed her gaze.
Mr. Hartford, I presumed. The painting portrayed a serious man with grey hair and a strong posture. However, his eyes were focused not on the artist, but off to the side, giving the impression that he was looking over your shoulder. I was almost tempted to turn around, as if the object of his attention would be standing there.
“Shall we get started?” the older gentleman prompted. He looked at his pocket watch and smacked his lips.
You can learn much about the dead from how their loved ones mourn them. I had been called to this noble home for one reason, and I suspected that it wasn’t for a last tearful goodbye. No matter, the greedy as well as the grieving still pay for a séance.
I made my way to the round table in the middle of the room. Slipping off my gloves, I opened my bag and began to remove my supplies, setting them up as I had done countless times before. As I prepared, the whispers started behind me. I caught a few snippets.
“Will this work?”
“Is this safe?”
“Can we trust her?”
Standing taller, I took in a long breath through my nose, then held out my hand. “Water,” I said, careful to keep the bulge inside my left cheek tucked away. A small crystal glass was placed in my grasp. Such elegance for an object of ordinary use, and such a waste. It could likely fetch enough to afford a full month’s rent at Miss Crane’s, and enough left over to replace my weathered boots with a new pair, ones with polished leather and thick heels that kept out the rain. I carefully placed the glass on the table, marking my spot. “Come,” I said, inviting the others.
Mrs. Hartford eased her thin figure into the chair opposite me first. Then the rest claimed their seats. The young man was the last to join us. A dewy patch of perspiration was breaking out across his forehead. I watched as the older gentleman and the woman exchanged a knowing glance.
Before each seat I had placed a single lit candle with a glass chimney to protect the flame from any shifts in the air. Then I laid a small velvet bag in the middle of the table. “No jewelry,” I said, pointing to the empty sack.
The younger woman did not hesitate. In fact, her eyes brightened as she dropped her jewels into the pouch one by one—the pearl necklace, a matching set of earrings, and a simple silver bracelet. Mrs. Hartford slowly turned the ring on her finger.
“Please, Mother,” she said. “Metal can interfere with spiritual connections. It’s imperative we talk to Father!”
One by one, I turned down the oil lamps around the room until the only light came from my candles and the fireplace. The glow illuminated the sharp angles of their faces, draping everything else in shadow. The space immediately felt smaller, more intimate.
I took my seat in the empty chair between the men. Facing Mrs. Hartford, I motioned to the ghost book I’d laid out on the table before me. The weathered black cover was blank, offering no hint as to its use or value. It was merely several slates bound together inside a book’s jacket, but with it I had the power to reveal the message of a loved one from the other side. I caressed the binding slowly like a beloved pet, and then with great care I opened the cover. My palm waved over the blank surface in a smooth, practised motion. “Your message?” I prompted her.