A Dreadful Splendor (32)

I took my own room’s key and slid it into the lock. There was resistance. I pulled it out and tried once more, but it would not fit. Deflated, I returned to my room.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Why would my key open the door to Audra’s bedroom? And that was when I realized what had stood out at dinner. When Dr. Barnaby was speaking about the engagement, he had said “Audra,” like Mr. Pemberton did, not “Lady Audra,” as did everyone else.

I blew out the candle and tucked into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

When I next woke, my heart was smashing against my ribs, and I was covered in a clammy sweat. Someone gripped my shoulders. I opened my eyes and saw Mr. Pemberton looking down at me, his face contorted in terror.





Chapter Twenty-One




There was never a time when I didn’t realize what my mother did for a living. My earliest memories were of cutting candle wicks and playing with the ghost book. While other children did sums on their slates at school, I practised cursive messages from the dead at home. I spent hours copying text from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

I was seven years old and skinny as a lamppost. My black curls were kept under control with thick braids Maman’s fingers nimbly weaved. We arrived at a beautiful house so huge our little home could fit several times over. I carried her bag, holding it high in front of my chest.

The servant nodded and took us to a room with heavy drapes and ornate furniture that looked uncomfortable. Even though the fireplace was lit, I felt a draft on the back of my neck. I moved one step to the side, but the coldness followed me.

Maman set her table, placing the candles at each chair, and then laid the ghost book in the middle. She spoke in simple sentences, instructing the family.

I remained off to the side. I was the mysterious element in Maman’s séance. The women, especially, snuck glances my way while playing with their necklaces or twirling their rings. They regarded me with equal parts unbridled curiosity and tempered voyeurism. A child at a séance? How ghoulishly unexpected and thrilling.

I knew exactly what would happen next. Maman would summon the ghost of the house! The very one whose absence had left holes in their hearts. At first, the family would be afraid, squeezing their eyes shut and whimpering. But magically, Maman’s skill and rapport with the spirit would make speaking with the dead seem like the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course they miss you,” she said to the ceiling.

Then she closed her eyes and said, “I can feel so much love from this spirit.” Next, she addressed the family. “He watches over you from above.”

I held my breath as she took the ghost book and slowly opened it, showing them a message where there was only a blank page before.

My love surrounds you every day.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stay quiet. Maman made me work on the letters over and over until it was to her satisfaction.

An airy celebration replaced the heaviness in the room. Maman comforted those who were grieving. I saw it every time we came to these houses that smelled of flowers and clean floors. When Maman and Mrs. Rinaldo had worked as fortune-tellers, they only attracted those who were burdened financially, desperate for a hint of encouragement or hope. The idle rich lived in the present and had no interest in someone confirming the fate of their future.

But being a spiritualist gave me access to the world of affluence. Death, unlike poverty, visited every family. And when the rich confronted death, they did so with Maman easing their conscience.

She came into the fold of pain and left the room the recipient of gratitude. It ended with tears and hugs, and an envelope of money pressed into her palm.

No one hugged me, but I didn’t mind. It was Maman’s arm around my shoulders I needed to feel. That was the sign that everything had gone well, that we’d done a good job.

Maman said, “Grief is heavy; it pulls the soul down. That’s why the house feels like it can breathe again after we’ve done a séance.” Her French accent blended her words unlike any other adult I’d ever heard. She was magical to me, like a queen of spirits.

Afterward, she praised me for doing my part so well. “You’re my lucky charm,” she said, kissing the top of my head. “The ghosts all like you.”

I spun around with the heavy bag, but lost my footing and tripped onto the cobblestones, twisting my ankle. There was a scream of horses. My foot felt like it had blown up. My mother’s face was over mine in an instant, pulling me to her chest. The bag lay open on the cobblestones. I worried the ghost book was ruined.

Maman held me close, murmuring into my braids. When it was obvious I wasn’t dead, but had only suffered a broken ankle, I joked that if the horse had run me over, I’d be her little ghost. I would haunt her forever and write silly messages in her ghost book, making the people at her séances laugh too.

“You know it’s all fake, oui, ma petite chérie? Once you die, that’s it; you’re never again.”

It was the first time my mother ever spoke of death with a sombre face and such a definite ending. And even though I knew of the tricks my mother did at her séances, a part of me believed we were shining the light on something that was already there, but too shy to show itself.

But now the truth was in front of me. I saw the cruelty of how we pretended for those people. We played off their fear—like the fear etched in my mother’s face when the horse trampled toward me.