Authors: Patricia Hagan
“Yes,” she lifted her chin confidently, wishing she had one more glass of wine. But it was now or never. “Let us begin.”
With thudding heart, April directed everyone to a seat. Rance had also told her there would be no argument here, for it was always the medium’s prerogative to designate seating.
She placed him on her right, with Edward next to him, and then Trella, Lizzie, and, finally, Mrs. Lincoln on her left. They were in a tight circle.
“The lights,” April whispered, closing her eyes and holding her head tilted backward. “We are ready.”
The young maid extinguished the gas jets. They were suddenly consumed by total darkness. There was the sound of a door opening and closing as the maid left them.
Too late to back out now, April thought dizzily, fighting the nausea rising to her throat.
Taking a deep breath, April began the seance.
Chapter Nineteen
April did not know what to expect. Rance had wanted it that way. He had instructed her in the basics of what she should say and do, but that was all. He wanted her just as awe-stricken as Mrs. Lincoln would be, as though she could not believe her own “powers.” That way, the sitting would be quite believable.
Actually she felt rather foolish once the room was plunged into darkness. She held Rance’s hand in her right, Mrs. Lincoln’s in her left, wondering if they could feel the cold clamminess of her hands. They were all waiting for her to begin, and suddenly she realized that she could not utter a word.
It was too much. She could not go through with it. Dear God, she prayed frantically, what have I gotten myself into? She felt the firm squeeze of Rance’s hand against her own, silently coaxing her. When still she did not speak, he nudged her with his
elbow. Mrs. Lincoln and Lizzie were making small movements, their breathing harsh and raspy.
She urged the words upward through her ever-tightening throat, which was still sore from Rance’s death-grip of only a short while ago. “We are here to speak to Willie…” she whispered in the trembly, eerie voice that Rance had made her rehearse until it was believable. “We are gathered here, because Willie has sent signs that he is restless…he wants to speak to his mother.”
She turned her head slightly to her left. “Speak to your son,” she whispered sternly.
“Willie…darling…”
The voice in the darkness cracked with emotion. “It’s me, your mother. Speak to me, darling. Let me know that you are all right.”
“Willie, that was your mother,” April rushed on, making her tone excited now. “Did you hear your mother? Do you hear me? You have let me know you wanted to speak through me. We are here. We are waiting. If you are among us, then let your presence be known.”
“Oh, my God!” Trella screamed to pierce the tense silence.
April had been sitting with her eyes closed, but at the sound, her lids flashed open, and a small cry escaped her as she saw the shining white object bobbing through the air above the table. What was it? She struggled to see. Mrs. Lincoln began to moan softly.
“That’s his little bugle,” Lizzie cried. “The li’l bugle his daddy had made out of silver, ’cause he wanted to be a bugle boy—”
“Do not break the chain!” April snapped tersely, feeling her grip on Mrs. Lincoln’s hand slacken. The woman was pulling away, eyes riveted to the eerily glowing silver bugle that continued to dance above them. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. But the sound of its thinly pitched tone began to echo around them.
“He’s playing. I hear him playing.”
“Lizzie, please,” Mrs. Lincoln whispered.
Suddenly the window clattered open, and a gust of icy wind and rain hit them full force at the same time the bugle sounded louder. The table began to rattle, and April realized it was rising.
“Oh, my God!” This time Trella’s cry was more subdued.
Something whooshed by, brushed April’s ear. It whooshed by again, and Lizzie screamed. “He touched me. I felt his touch. Praise the Lord, Miz Lincoln, he’s here! Your boy is here in this room with us. I feel it stronger than ever before.”
Softly, at first, the drumbeats began, rhythmically, over and over, filling the room with a sense of frenzy, wildness. Something bright and shiny flew across the room and hovered momentarily above the table before disappearing completely.
April did not know if the chill that was inching its way to her bones was from the open window or from fear. Rance was still holding her hand. How had he caused all this? It had to be a fake—had to be. Yet it seemed so real. It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate with the sounds of the bugle and the drum.
She began once more. “Willie is speaking to me.” She strained to make her voice high-pitched. “Willie wants us to know he is happy. He describes his home as very beautiful, many stars, much gold. He says he is much happier than he ever was in this life.”
“Oh, I want him to be happy,” Mrs. Lincoln cried, then raised her voice. “Willie, darling, I want you to be happy. I do. I do.”
“He says…” April paused for effect. “He says he is with Alex.”
“Alex! My half-brother!” Mrs. Lincoln started to draw her hand away, but April held tightly. “Oh, praise the Lord. Alexander is my half-brother. He died fighting for the South…at Baton Rouge…not long ago. Oh, he always thought so much of Willie. They’re together.” She began to sob.
April squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see any more objects, hating herself for what she was doing. Charlatan! Liar! she accused herself. She was not charging a fee, and perhaps the seance would ease the poor woman’s grief. But the guilt remained.
She saw a gray mist swimming before her. Strange, she thought vaguely, my eyes are closed, yet I see this mist. Slowly, ever so slowly, the mist became a cloud, and then the cloud was parting. She could see her father, so clearly, and, oh, dear God, no! She shook her head from side to side, moaning, felt Rance pressing harder on her hand, hurting her, but she could not open her eyes, could not speak. She saw him so clearly…lying in his coffin. The lid was being closed, and then he was being carried through those wrought iron gates with the scrolled “J.” He was placed next to her mother. And it was so real she felt as though she could reach out and touch the rough wood of the casket, smell the musky odor of the mausoleum.
There were no flowers. No friends. No weeping relatives. Only Vanessa standing there, beside the casket, not even wearing a dress of mourning but a bright red ballgown.
And there was Zeke, and he was smiling, showing the ugly yellow teeth she loathed.
It
was
real. She was there. She could see it. The steady beating of the drum began to match the beating of her heart. Real…real. Poppa in his coffin. “No!” She screamed suddenly. “No, Poppa, no!”
“April, stop it.” She had dropped Rance’s hand to cover her face and try to shut out the horrible scene, and he was reaching for her, shaking her.
“No—no—no,” she moaned over and over, allowing him to press her face against his strong chest to muffle her cries of agony.
“Everyone sit right where you are. Don’t move. I think she went too deeply into her trance. We’re going to have to sit here until she returns to us. Don’t anyone make a sound, please.” He held her tighter, moving his lips to press against her ear and murmur, too softly for anyone else to hear, “It’s all right. You can stop now. It’s over.”
But she could not stop, and after several moments, Rance said, “We can have light now. I think she needs some brandy.”
Dimly, April was aware that the window was again closed. Cold air and sleet were no longer blowing across them. She continued to cling to Rance, even as the room was lit again. It was Lizzie who handed her a glass of brandy. April drank gratefully.
Mrs. Lincoln touched her shoulder gently and asked, “Are you all right now, dear? You gave us such a fright. I have never seen a medium travel so far from us.”
April managed to nod, but her mind was on the vision. She closed her eyes, then opened them. It was gone. Perhaps, she told herself with relief, she had fallen asleep. She had dreamed of her father. Yes, that was it. She was sure of it. She had been thinking of morning, when she would be free to find her way back to him.
But why had she envisioned him in his coffin? Perhaps it was her instincts telling her to hurry home, there was no time to spare. He needed her.
“I would like to leave now,” she looked at Rance, saw the concern in his eyes. “I don’t feel well.”
Lizzie, wide-eyed and quite shaken, backed toward the door. “I’ll get your wraps. I’ll only be a moment. She does look like she could use some rest.”
Mrs. Lincoln was saying something about hoping she could come back soon. She was so satisfied, she assured Rance, and happy to hear that Willie was with her half-brother. Perhaps next time, Rance responded politely, they might speak with Willie longer.
Just get me out of here, April implored him with her eyes. Take me out of here before I break down and let her know it was all a sham. I can’t hurt her that way. Please, I don’t want to hurt the woman.
Once they were in the carriage, Trella was unable to contain herself. “Rance, how did all those things happen? Oh, Lordy, don’t tell me they were real. I was so scared, and I knew you and Edward never left the table.”
“I’ll explain, if you’ll calm down,” Rance laughed. “We had help. We do have some allies in Washington, you know. The window was forced open from outside. That’s where the drumbeats and the bugle were being played. As for the bugle appearing to float from the air, Edward and I ran a string up near the ceiling when we first left the dining room, before we started prowling around.”
“And the reason he insisted everyone remain calm at the end,” Edward interjected, “was so I could grope about and remove all the strings that pulled all the objects.”
She gasped. “Oh, my stars! It seemed so real. You sure had me fooled. I was so scared. But what about the table rising?”
Edward looked smug. “Rance and I dropped the hands that were holding you and April, and we lifted it from the floor. I think we did pretty good.”
Trella clapped her hands together in childlike glee, then leaned across Edward to ask of Rance, “But did you find anything of importance?”
The carriage passed beneath a streetlight, the gas flame giving off an eerie glow that illuminated the grim expression on his face. In a dread tone, he murmured, “Yes, we did. I am afraid we are going to be too late to be of any help, though. Tomorrow, we leave Washington. I have to get beyond enemy lines so I can send a message.”
“We need to leave, anyway,” he continued, looking at Edward as though conveying secrets. “There are other things to be done now.”
Trella continued to bubble happily about the success of the seance, while everyone else fell silent, engrossed in private thoughts.
Arriving at the hotel, Edward and Trella went straight to Edward’s room. April retired to her own without looking at Rance, but once inside, she was possessed by a strange feeling which she could not understand. She was free to go tomorrow morning, but nothing had been said tonight about any arrangements. Surely, he would not leave her destitute. They had a bargain, and she had kept her end.
Finally, she realized that she would have to talk to Rance. That, she told herself as she opened her door and left the room, was the only reason she wanted to see him.
She rapped softly on his door and did not have long to wait before he called, “Come in, April. It’s not locked.”
So, she thought, he had been expecting her. She turned the knob and stepped into faint darkness, the only light coming from the window and the gas lights beyond it. The storm had abated, and there was only silence to surround.
She took a deep breath and began, “I want to talk to you about how I am to leave tomorrow. I will need funds, but I will pay you back one day, I promise.”
He was beside her so quickly that she did not see his movements. “That’s not the reason you came to me tonight, and you know it!” His lips claimed hers, hard, smoldering. She stiffened in his embrace, pressed her hands against his chest and tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.
The desire she could not fight began to take hold. It began as a warm moisture in her loins, then spread upward to caress her insides. Her lips became soft, yielding, and she received his tongue.
In one easy movement, he lifted and carried her across the room, laying her on his bed. He removed her clothing quickly and then stripped off his own clothes.
His fingers danced upon her body, caressing, teasing, making her writhe and moan. “Take me,” she whispered wantonly. “Oh, Rance, please, please take me.”
“Show me!” he commanded gruffly. “Show me what you want me to do.”
He rolled over on his back, grinning his smile. She shook her head in shy confusion.
He grasped her waist and pulled her over and up on top of him, spreading her thighs so that she was straddling him. He held her just above him and then, slowly, maneuvered her onto the probing shaft.
“Ride me,” he commanded. “Ride me as you would your horse. I’ll move with you. All the way.”
At first, she moved slowly, still shy, but as the tingling sensations began to spread into spasms of delight, she undulated her hips to gyrate faster, harder. His fingers slid from her waist to her breasts, caressing, moving to pinch her nipples. She was free to set the pace, to move with him, against him, around him. And when she felt herself about to explode with the ultimate joy, he sensed it and quickly threw her over and onto her back. Then he took her wildly as though she were a mare daring to be tamed.