The Ghost of the Mary Celeste (28 page)

“They sailed away,” she said again. Then she coughed, clearing away the apparition. “And I was left on the shore in this charade of a life.”

I said nothing, reluctant to leave the spell of that marvelous vessel, plowing the waves, sailing into the unknown.

“You remind me of her,” Violet said.

This brought me round. “Of Sarah Briggs?”

She nodded.

“Was she tall?”

“No.” She scrutinized me for the point of comparison. “You don’t look like her; it’s something in your manner.”

“The way I talk?”

“Perhaps it’s only that you don’t entirely approve of me.”

“I don’t disapprove of you,” I lied.

“Of course you do,” she said. “How could you not? I’m a nonentity. I do nothing. I create nothing. I’m a parasite feeding on the blood of fools who haven’t the sense to swat me.”

“That’s going too far,” I objected.

“No. It’s true. It’s the truth. I know what I am, though I’m not exactly sure how I got to be what I am.” This conundrum held her attention and she furrowed her brow, her eyes settling on the package in my hands. “But something is changing in me; I can feel it. I have the sense that even I may have my little moment of courage.”

“I hope you will,” I said.

“Do you?” she replied. “The idea terrifies me.”

Mrs. Millicent Atlas of Brooklyn had come to Spiritualism by way of the suffragist movement, and though she had no doubts about the continuity of life, her chief interest was the struggle for justice on this side of the veil. William, her husband, had made his fortune in the shipping industry. He and her four exuberant daughters all supported her in every cause. Their home, a spacious brown-stone set well back from the muddy street behind an iron fence,
was a continual hubbub of visitors, meals, and heated conversations. One didn’t visit the Atlas residence; one was enfolded into it. For Violet Petra, who had spent so much of her time with the desperately bereaved, the atmosphere was unnerving and fraught with peril. She wasn’t sure what to expect or what was expected, and so, during her brief visit, she stayed in the cluttered, chintz-festooned guest room as much as she politely could. The sound of talking, laughter, singing, guests or daughters trooping up and down the stairs in groups, shouts from room to room, the clatter of dishes in the dining room, where it seemed some version of a meal was continually under way, all rose up to Violet, tempting her.
Join us
, the voices seemed to say.
This is life; this is joy. Let us meet and talk and strive. Let us change the world
.

Mrs. Atlas, a stately matron with a large nose, close-set brown eyes, and black hair cut short and curled in the Titus style, had the efficient manner of an aristocrat turned politician, which, indeed, she was. She knew who Violet was, why she had come, and where she was going, but she showed no interest in any of this, beyond commending the Society for Psychical Research for debunking “that dreadful Blavatsky woman.” Surely Mrs. Atlas knew Miss Petra was crossing the ocean to court the same fate as the disgraced Russian. “Do you know,” Mrs. Atlas continued, “she had actually hired an assistant to push spirit messages on slips of paper through a crack in the ceiling?” Violet acquiesced in her hostess’s condemnation of such fraudulent practices.

“And then poor Margaret Fox,” Mrs. Atlas concluded. “Such a confusing spectacle.”

“Indeed,” Violet concurred.

Mr. Atlas, a small, stout, explosive personage, with bulging eyes, tumid lips, and moist hands that he rubbed together when waiting for the opportunity to make a point, was most interested in Miss Petra’s ship, the
Campania
, which he declared to be as fine a vessel as one could hope for a crossing, with all manner of luxury and captained by one of the ablest men on the seas. He would escort his guest on her departure, and if Captain Hains was aboard, introduce
her to him, thereby guaranteeing that she might want for nothing on her voyage. At lunch, the day before her departure, it was revealed that Violet’s ticket was for the second class, which news caused a distinct cooling in the general excitement about her trip. Though no one said it, she understood that Captain Hains was unlikely to take a “special” interest in a passenger who would never promenade on the saloon deck and must dine by the bugle, and not, as was the new fashion, à la carte. “I understand all the accommodations are excellent,” Mrs. Atlas assured her. “You’ll have a comfortable crossing, and really, it’s all the same food.”

When the hour came for her departure, Mr. Atlas was engaged at his offices and it was Mrs. Atlas, unacquainted with the estimable Captain Hains, who delivered their guest to the pier. A house servant loaded Violet’s luggage into the back of a phaeton drawn up to the gate. To Violet’s surprise, her hostess, having pulled on a cloak and a pair of sturdy boots at the door, strode across the slush beyond the curb and leaped onto the bench, taking the reins into her gloved hands with practiced confidence. Violet followed, careful of her skirts, and climbed into the space beside her indomitable hostess. The enforced zeal and energy of Mrs. Atlas irritated her, but she knew what she was expected to say and she said it. “You drive your own carriage!”

Mrs. Atlas’s dark eyes flashed combatively. “Don’t ladies drive in Philadelphia?” she asked. However, she evidenced no interest in the answer to this question, tightening the reins and snapping her horse’s head to attention.

It was a cold, damp morning with a sky as close and smoke-stained as a tenement ceiling. The phaeton whirled along the narrow streets toward the waterfront and up the ramp to the bridge where the traffic was heavy but brisk. Mrs. Atlas occupied herself with her driving, and Violet was left to look out over the river, which was dotted with ferries, barques, brigs, schooners, barges, and steamers, all meandering upstream and -down in an orchestrated dance choreographed by some unseen, all-knowing god of wind, water, and commerce. It made her head ache to look at it. She had slept
poorly—the Atlas home was teetotal—and her nerves were frayed and raw. As the phaeton cleared the bridge and steered toward the wharf, the traffic thickened, and finally ground to a halt. Violet gazed listlessly at the pressed confusion of cabs, private carriages, men in caps pushing all manner of barrows and carts, men in top hats, and ladies wrapped in fur descending from the vehicles, clots of ragged children and clusters of gibbering foreigners, sharp young men in uniforms pulling luggage down from cabs, horses stamping their hooves and tossing their heads, or standing patiently while their drivers shouted at one another. “There she is,” Mrs. Atlas said, pointing over her right shoulder. “I’ll try to get you as close as I can.”

Violet turned to see what Mrs. Atlas pointed at, what everyone in this whirlpool of shouting, maddening humanity packed between a row of dreary warehouses and a behemoth was pushing toward. Indeed, there she was, her great black hulk topped by two gleaming white decks and towering above that, as tall as a lighthouse and raked at an angle that made them look already windswept, two great red smokestacks.

Scattered passengers and a few sailors were already aboard, leaning on the rail of the upper deck, breathing the better air above the mob. The steepest gangway was dotted with passengers, who were being admitted a few at a time. Another, lower ramp was manned by the sharp young men, passing in luggage from the carts. Mrs. Atlas maneuvered the horse a few steps closer and turned the phaeton to face the ship. She hailed one of the uniformed porters, who leaped a cordoned area piled with luggage and rushed to the carriage, pulling Violet’s bags from the back. Having accomplished this task, he came to the phaeton door and stood staring expectantly at the two ladies within. “He’ll need to see your ticket, my dear,” Mrs. Atlas said pleasantly. Violet handed down the ticket, which the porter examined momentarily, then returned to the luggage, slapped a white label on each piece, and wrote a few numbers across it with a thick crayon. “I wish I could get closer,” Mrs. Atlas assured Violet. “Can you make your way through this awful mob?” The porter turned back, holding out his hand to Violet with
his cheerful, noncommittal expression. She cast the most fleeting glance at Mrs. Atlas, who was clearly eager to take up her reins and trot back to the world of those who needed and adored her. “I’ll be fine,” Violet said, but as her foot reached the ground she stumbled, and the porter, with a mumbled “Steady there,” caught her elbow to right her. “Thank you,” she said, but he had already turned away to whistle at a lad with a barrow.

“Bon voyage, Miss Petra,” Mrs. Atlas called out cheerfully. She clucked to her horse and the phaeton’s big wheels creaked against the wharf as it pulled away.

“I’ll be fine,” Violet said again, but no one heard her.

The journey through the crowded pier to the door of stateroom 144 on the second deck of the S.S.
Campania
took more than an hour, during which, Violet assured herself, she rubbed shoulders with every station of society. When she had turned the key, pushed open the heavy metal door, and stepped inside, she viewed the interior with a palpable sense of relief. Though the ceiling was necessarily low and the cabin small, everything in it was pristine, tasteful, and designed to take advantage of the limited space. Bouquets of violets were stenciled in a pattern above a creamy yellow wainscot that matched the two built-in drawers and the cabinet beneath the commode. Every modern convenience was available: electric lights, a sink with two faucets, adequate ventilation, and a water closet. A pillow and a clean towel were laid out on the neatly made bunk. Another bunk attached to the wall above had been folded up and latched in place, as the management knew Miss Petra was traveling alone. Her luggage—how had they achieved it?—was already there, stacked on the long sofa that occupied one end of the room. There was no window, save a small curtained square that opened into the corridor—it was an interior cabin—but a view was provided by a painting of a pastoral scene, complete with two cows grazing in the background, full of light and serenity. This picture would be her daylight for the next week.

She sat down on the sofa next to her trunk, her hat box and the bulky travel bag containing a few books, writing tablets, fountain pens, and toilet articles. She leaned her arm upon the trunk and closed her eyes. She might, she thought, never leave this room. She wouldn’t be required to, though of course she would have to eat.

But for that she had only to present herself three times a day, or four if she took tea, at the dining room where, surrounded by strangers, she might contrive to be virtually invisible. She dreaded the condescending looks, the polite smiles that would greet the announcement that she was a medium en route to be investigated by the Society for Psychical Research. She had spent most of her adult life among believers—this would be different. Occasional intrusions, scoffers at public sittings, skeptical relatives or curiosity seekers, and, of course, Phoebe Grant, had operated upon her not as threats but as diversions. But here, the materialists, the unbelievers, would be in the majority, and since the Fox sisters’ recantation, they were sometimes bitter and vengeful.

There were upwards of fifteen hundred people on the ship, all settling into their respective places, the wealthy above her, out of reach, the poor below, and among them, at all levels, there were doubtless a few who might defend her, or even seek her out, but she wouldn’t risk it. She was out of her element here, in more ways than one, and she had no desire to become an object of interest and possibly derision to her fellow voyagers.

She opened her eyes and busied herself with pulling the pins out of her hat, removing it from the nest of her hair. She would have to come up with a story. She was traveling for her health, to visit family abroad, to take up a position of some kind, a governess perhaps, or she was going out to be married and then follow her new husband to India or Africa. A rich uncle had passed on and she was an heiress to his grand estate. Or small estate—hence the second-class dining room. Why, why would a middle-aged American woman be traveling to England alone?

Considering the amount of human activity that must be going forth all over the ship, the stateroom was remarkably quiet. She
could hear a distant shout, the sound of the opposite door opening and closing, muffled footsteps moving away, then nothing. Warm air drifted in through the ventilation system; she could hear a faint hum. She stood up, removed her coat, went to the basin, and turned on the tap, lowering her hands into the stream of cool water. She would need one credible story with not much elaboration, a straightforward mission. Best not to include a death. A visit to a relative, a sister, living where? London? No, too vast. Bath. Yes. She had never been to Bath but had read Jane Austen and so had some idea what the atmosphere was like. Her sister was a widow or a spinster, like herself, living in Bath and she was going out to visit her. They had not seen each other in many years. How many?

Twenty-two years.

No. Too long. Five years. Four.

The soap was of a good quality, lathering up thickly in her hands and leaving a faint fragrance of verbena as she rinsed it away. She raised her eyes to her reflection in the oval mirror affixed to the wall. Keep your chin up, she thought. Then she studied her face, which, she observed with conscious irony, was beginning to look unfamiliar. She gave her image a tentative smile. “Who do you think you are?” she said softly.