Authors: Colleen Quinn
Alice looked sixteen again, alight with excitement and expectation. Melissa stared at her aunt in wonder as Alice spoke quickly. “Are you…happy, Thomas? Was your death so terrible?”
“I was shot by a rebel. Gettysburg. Defeated Lee. My God, the bullet hurt!”
The Scotts sobbed openly as Clara shrieked, and Alice cried softly, “I was so worried about you, I didn’t know…”
“Buried me,” the voice came once again. “Cemetery Hill. Me and Taylor. He left a wife and children.”
The voice slowly faded, and Alice gripped Rosemary’s fingers more tightly. “Please don’t leave me! I want you to know that…I love you. I’ve never forgotten…”
Clara nodded twice, and Rosemary released Alice’s hand and slipped her wrist beneath the table. Inserting the poles of wood under the table top, she raised the table a scarce inch from the floor while Clara did the same from the opposite side. The women’s faces turned to astonishment as the table slowly levitated and seemingly floated in midair.
“My God!” Mrs. Pew whispered, and Melissa paled. “It’s…moving!”
“Is there anyone else with you, Thomas?” Rosemary questioned as the table floated. Suddenly the wood snapped at her wrist, and the table dropped awkwardly to the floor. Clara scowled, but the women were so entranced that no one noticed.
“Yes,” Clara said, falling back into the trance. “Many and none. One of us wants to speak. I will let him now.”
The women stared in fascinated terror as Clara slumped down as if sleeping, her eyes rolled back into her head. Slowly she jerked, as if two spirits battled for her body, then she sat up directly, her eyes staring unseeing at the candle.
“Is there a spirit present?” Rosemary asked. Clara still stared directly ahead, her body rigid. Concerned, Rosemary leaned closer and tried again. “Does someone wish to speak?”
There was silence for a moment, except for the soft breathing of the audience. Then suddenly something seemed different. The air was filled with a strange kind of tension and power. The candle blew out, and the room was plunged into darkness. The women shrieked, the sound chilling in the blackness.
“Please be quiet!” Rosemary said firmly, trying to regain control. The women obeyed, sniffling to themselves as the gaslights remained dark, while the widow sobbed.
“Clara?” Rosemary whispered. She’d done this act with Clara hundreds of times, but nothing like this had ever happened. Usually benevolent ghosts would speak through Clara, the missing life force of a loved one. And though Rose knew what she and Clara did to enhance their act, she never doubted that the spirits were really present.
Yet this was different, but she wasn’t really frightened. Warmth filled her, and she experienced an odd sort of reassurance as Clara began to speak, this time in a very different voice, one with a thick Irish accent.
“Aye, I would like to speak. It’s been a long time, though I’ve well been tempted. What are you up to, me girl?”
Rosemary felt the blood drain from her face, but before she could say a word, the widow whispered in horror beside her.
“Sean! It’s Sean Carney!”
Michael stepped from his elegant carriage, grateful to be home before dinner was served. It was the first time in a week that he’d managed such a feat. A wry smile came to his face as he tried to shrug off the tiredness that was now ever present.
Odd, but it had never bothered him before, the all-consuming duties of his position. But then, he had never had Rosemary waiting for him. Somehow, he was beginning to question what he was doing and whether or not it was worth it. When he was younger, he recalled that his father would often take time off to be with his family, to take his wife out for a walk on a spring day or his children to the park. And if a family was in need for medical care, they knew Jonathan Wharton would never leave them without that care, whether or not they could pay.
And often as not, packages would arrive at the house containing a handknit sweater, a jar of precious jam, or a bottle of whiskey. Back then he had thought his father irresponsible, especially after the financial panic, but now he was beginning to understand. There were more things in life than money, and it had taken a clown to teach him that.
Michael grinned. Rosemary was wearing the clothes he’d bought her, entertaining his mother’s friends at tea, and learning womanly activities. Even though he knew she missed the circus, she was doing what she’d promised and trying to assimilate herself into this new life. Tonight he wanted to show her his appreciation and take her to dinner, to some elegant restaurant in the city. Rosemary would love the Academy of Music, and there was a show tonight….
“I’m afraid the ladies haven’t returned,” James said solemnly, accepting Michael’s hat and coat. “They left earlier today for the Caldwalders’ residence. They expected to be back some time ago.”
“That’s odd.” Michael glanced at the empty house in disappointment, then reached for his coat and hat once more. “I was going to take Mrs. Wharton out. Maybe I’ll meet her there.”
James suppressed a smile as the normally reserved Michael Wharton retreated quickly. He obviously couldn’t wait to be with his bride, for the clown-woman who had won his heart. Rosemary Carney may not have known what fork to use, James thought. But she had a far more useful talent.
She knew how to make people love her. And Michael was just the beginning.
Alice relit the candle, and a warm glow fell upon the room. Rosemary fought the dizziness that swept over her and the overwhelming emotions that threatened to rob her sanity.
She would have known that voice anywhere. Desperately, she stared at Clara, but the older woman had fallen into a slump and refused to awaken. The other women stared in helpless confusion as Rosemary tried to regain control.
“Papa? Is it you? Are you there?”
Silence. Clara didn’t move; the others stared at each other in frightened wonder.
“Sean? Speak to me, it’s Rose!”
Nothing. A cool breeze rippled across the table, causing the candle to flicker and the chandelier overhead to tinkle, but nothing else. The room was oppressively quiet and somber.
“Clara!” Rosemary got to her feet, concerned. But as soon as she rose, the tins clanging, Clara awoke and yawned like her contented tabby cat, her arms stretching out as if she’d been sleeping a long time.
“Ye don’t have to shout, girl, I hear you,” Clara answered crossly, then glanced about the room in confusion. “Is it over? Did they come?”
“Sean,” Rosemary said, feeling the tingle along her spine once more. “Clara, Sean spoke through you!”
The older woman gaped, then looked to the others for verification. One by one the women’s heads nodded, affirming that, indeed, Sean Carney had put in an appearance.
Clara’s jaw dropped, and she stared at Rosemary in surprise. Then, seeing the faces of the other women, she nodded quickly. “Of course he did. Your father always was a powerful presence. The fool’s been dead nigh on five years, and he waits till now to speak. Just like your father, Rose. What did he want?”
“I don’t know. He started to speak, then the candle went out.”
“Bah! I just don’t know why he wouldn’t be resting, why he felt the need to contact you.” Shaking her head, Clara shivered, then noticed the open door. “There’s the draft! Are we not missing one of the ladies?”
It was then Rose noticed that the widow’s seat was conspicuously empty. Alice nodded, gesturing to the chair, her own tear-streaked face still beaming.
“The widow left. I think she was upset. Wasn’t it wonderful? I can’t believe I spoke to my Thomas!” She turned to Clara, her eyes alight with hope. “You must come again very soon. When word of this gets out, you will be highly in demand. Carney’s Circus, I must say!”
Rosemary grinned. She had found a niche in this society, one where she could be useful and happy as well. She wouldn’t be dependent on Michael for everything. Doing the seances, she would have her own income and be able to send something to the circus to see that Carney’s went on.
She just wondered why the widow had run out. Staring at the empty chair, Rosemary’s mischievous nature refused to let this mystery go unsolved.
“This way, Mr. Wharton.”
The Caldwalders’ butler led Michael into the parlor, seemingly unsurprised by his sudden appearance. A woman rushed by, giving him a distraught glance as if she could see right through him. Ignoring the butler’s surprised look, she ran past them both, out the front door, and down the street.
“The Widow Naylor,” the butler said as if in explanation, still gazing down the street. Michael shrugged as the woman disappeared, but something about her face wouldn’t leave him. It seemed oddly familiar and pale, as if she’d been crying. The butler closed the door, then indicated the parlor. Stepping into the overstuffed room, Michael glanced about in confusion as he struggled to see through the dim light.
One candle provided the only illumination. The tiny circumference of light fell like a halo around the circle of society women, all of them seated around a black-cloaked table. Clara wore her gypsy costume, her gray hair tied back in a bandanna, while Rosemary was dressed in a silver and black creation that he had seen once before, when he’d played Lorac.
It wasn’t possible, but his eyes didn’t lie. Rosemary was conducting a seance, one that must have just concluded. Astonishment filled him as the women, unaware of his presence, congratulated Rose and Clara on the spirits they had roused!
“And you must come to the Ladies’ Auxiliary! Everyone will want their palm done!”
“And don’t forget the Women’s Organization for Beautification of the City! Emma Wadsworth will never forgive us if you don’t come. She’s quite a spiritualist, you know.”
“And my tea next week! You must make it a success! When Mary Whitman hears of this, she will be green with envy!”
Michael stepped forward, and the ladies turned in surprise, then delight as they recognized the handsome banker. Alice Caldwalder approached him, her eyes still tearful.
“What a darling wife you have, my boy! She’s brought me so much pleasure in such a short time! I spoke to Thomas, you know. I never thought I would again in this life. My God, when I think of him lying in that grave…”
Michael nodded, his smile tight. “I’m glad the meeting proved beneficial for you. Now, if you all don’t mind, I came to fetch my wife. Rosemary?”
She nodded, taking her cloak from the butler, a cold dread passing through her. She’d known Michael long enough and teased him enough to know what that look meant.
He was furious.
“I
WAS ONLY TRYING TO HELP
.”
Michael stared incredulously as Rosemary lifted her face, her eyes wide with frustration. She was telling the truth—he could see that in the way she looked at him, the forthright indignation that he could suppose anything else. Running his hand through his hair, he stopped pacing the parlor rug while James discreetly disappeared.
“Don’t you understand?” Michael demanded. “I’ve been trying to build a life for us here, a decent, respectable life for all of us! For God’s sake, Rose, don’t stand there and tell me you think acting the part of a mystic will help that! These are society women! How will they ever accept you as a friend when you go out of your way to make yourself different?”
“But I am different, and they wanted me to perform!” Rose said simply, fighting the tears that threatened. “Miss Caldwalder practically begged me to do it. I tried to refuse, but they just wouldn’t let me. Even your mother couldn’t talk them out of it. I just wanted to make them happy.”
“And what of the widow?” Michael said sharply. “Did you make her happy? The poor woman ran out the house in tears! I passed her when I came in! You scared the hell out of her.”
Rosemary nodded, emotion choking her. “I know. But that wasn’t our fault. A ghost appeared that we didn’t expect. I think it was my father!”
“Jesus, Rose, do you really expect me to believe that? I was part of the damned act, remember?” Before Rosemary could speak, he cut her off. “Look, I don’t want to hear anything else about it. I simply want your promise that you won’t do it again.”
Rosemary took a deep breath. “Michael, I am a clown. Fortune-telling is one of the acts—”
“Were,” Michael cut her off. “You
were
a clown. I’m trying to give you something better….Why can’t you see that?”
“Maybe because I don’t think it’s better!” The tears spilled forth now, and Rosemary wiped at her face with her fist. Michael stared at her incredulously, and she nodded her head. She couldn’t back down now, there was too much at stake. All of her doubts of the past few weeks haunted her, and she knew it was better to clear the air.
“How can you say that? Do you really want to go back to living in a tent, unsure of your next meal, worrying about everything from selling tickets to elephant dung to Elsa’s pregnancy?”
“At least I was alive then, useful, a person!” Rosemary retorted, her anger welling up inside of her. “Michael, it’s no good. I’ve tried to become what you wanted. I’ve tatted and sewed, cut scrap and made horrendous books. I’ve listened to idle gossip until I thought I would go out of my mind, and I’ve tried to fill the day with useless activities. I can’t stand it! I’m a humbug, same as Barnum. I’m not…cut out to be a lady.”