A Dreadful Splendor (51)

And William? Since the engagement he has become sullen and prone to fits of temper. Even the kitchen staff, who are usually so enamored by his charm, have become leery of him. This is all due to Mr. Pemberton. I know William is hurting, but we all must be brave, mustn’t we, Dearest? We had such fun together as children. Now that old companion is gone, and I can no longer trust him.

I am grateful, at least, that I never told him the Linwood secret. I can only imagine the unease he would have unleashed on Somerset.





Chapter Thirty-Two




I was fifteen when a caravan of entertainers came to our part of the city. The sides of their wagons advertised the various performers, painted with large swirling letters, and faces that were both scary and comical.

Maman was taking me to see them. It was a rare event for us to be the ones watching a performance rather than playing the parts ourselves.

The entertainers transformed their wagons into booths, the side doors opening wide. The air smelled of roasted nuts and a thick sweetness. Flute music was playing, but I couldn’t see the musician through the growing audience. The sun was low in the sky, and when the performers lit the numerous candles and lanterns it transformed the space into a fairy garden. The buzzing anticipation of the crowd mingled with my own excitement as we walked along, basking in the magical glow of it all.

Maman kept reaching for me, but I was too old now to hold her hand. I was a few steps ahead of her when I spotted the side of a wagon advertising a fortune-teller. Magnificent owl eyes stared back at me from the painting. There was no line to enter.

Maman’s fingers rested on my shoulder. “Genevieve,” she warned. “Are you sure you want to spend all your money on frivolous entertainment?” She pointed to the other attractions that were free, and then motioned to the doughnuts and ginger beer wagon. When I didn’t move, she whispered, “A fortune-teller reads us, not the cards—like I do at séances.”

I was stubborn and did not heed her words. It had been two months since our last séance, and she was particular about saving money, which meant we’d been eating porridge for every meal. The spiritualist business had become more dangerous. The chief inspector was rumored to be especially hard. He said what Maman and I did was criminal activity. “Worse than robbing a bank!” he exclaimed to the London Times. “They prey on the vulnerable emotions of grieving souls. No worse vermin than that lot.”

Having his words in print set flame to a general sense of unjustness among the public. Work came less and less. The money stopped, and our home slowly lost its comforts one by one as it forced Maman to sell anything that would fetch a price—even Mrs. Rinaldo’s bracelets.

I dreamt of a day when I wouldn’t have to deal with death so much. But what else was I going to do? What skills did I have other than speaking a bit of French and being able to recite The Hunchback of Notre Dame by heart?

I envied the women of the stately homes we visited. They knew how to do needlework, painting, dancing, and all the other skills that accomplished ladies possessed. I had nothing to look forward to but following Maman around as I grew taller, wearing dresses with a hem that was already let down to the longest length.

However, my height was not all that had changed. Men treated me differently. Their eyes lingered on my face longer. There was a power about it, a power I did not yet know how to harness.

I was determined to go to the fortune-teller. I was not in the mood to be told I didn’t deserve at least one small pleasure.

Her eyes were as dark as the Thames at night. She had brightly painted lips and rouged cheeks. Her black braids were thick and decorated her head like a crown. But even with all the makeup, I sensed she might only be a few years older than me.

My heart raced, urging me forward. I no longer felt the touch of my mother on my shoulder, trying to pull me back.

I put down two pence, all the money I had to spend.

She kept her eyes on me as she covered the coins with her hand and slid them toward her. Then she fanned out the deck. I had never seen cards like those. There were fanciful creatures painted on each one. Some were beautiful, with jewels for eyes and flowing hair; some were hideous demons with two heads and covered in fur. My eyes traced the intricate details of each image, mesmerized.

Her voice was musical, an accent I had never heard before. She flicked her finger, and the whole fan of cards flipped over to the other side, showing the same solid red background with a gold star. She shuffled with well-practised hands. I wanted to ask her how long she’d been giving fortunes. There was a curious pull under my ribs, and I wondered if there might be room for Maman and me in their caravan. Surely, a spiritualist would only enhance the show.

I felt grown-up for thinking this, but not so grown-up that I wouldn’t appreciate having a friend, someone my age who might understand what my life was like. I already had a connection with this girl, and I was certain she would come to the same conclusion.

The fortune-teller stopped moving the cards. Her hand froze as she looked over my shoulder. Her finely lined eyebrows came together. I didn’t have to turn around to know Maman was there.

She asked me to separate the deck into two halves and to choose a pile. I repeated this task until there were only a handful of cards left.

She flipped them over one by one. “There will be a significant change in your life,” she said. “I see you taking an alternative path, but one that is chosen for you, not forced.” My future was before her eyes. Would Maman and I join the caravan? When she turned over the last card, every part of my body was rigid, waiting to exhale.