“
What is it, Lizette? Did you forget something?”
“
Yes. Yes.” That was her escape. She could hardly speak.
“
Shall I go on and find us a room?”
“
Please. I’ll only be a minute.”
“
I’ll get a room, then meet you at the top of these stairs.” He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t dawdle.”
“
Yes. No. I’ll be right there.”
She descended the few stairs, turning her face away from Reilly’s direction and went back into the ballroom. There were no longer guests in the room, only staff carrying in tables and chairs. Clara approached one of them.
“
I need air. I’m a bit faint. Is there a back entrance this way?” She gestured toward the big door where the staff was pouring in with the furniture.
The young man pointed and said, “Go half way through that room, turn right, then left, down the hall until you come to the upstairs kitchen. That’ll take you to the alley.
Too afraid to look back, Clara rushed against the stream of staff people through a drawing room and followed the directions. She kept mumbling, “Excuse me. I need air. Excuse me, I need air,” to everyone who seemed surprised by her presence in the rear quarters of the house. Finally she arrived at the service entrance. There was a long line of delivery wagons and horses waiting along the alley.
She couldn’t stay at the ball now. She couldn’t risk being seen by Reilly. Had he seen her already and not greeted her? If she went back in, and Reilly saw her, he might tell Papa and then Papa might find her and Euphora. But if she left the ball, Mary Johnson would boot her out of the house. And what about Hannah? She bit down on to the inside of her mouth.
Hell-fire.
She had to go. She’d figure the rest out tomorrow.
<><><>
IT WAS EERIE BEING ALONE at Mary Johnson’s. Clara was the only one in the parlor house except for James and Lettie downstairs. At one in the morning there would usually be cackles of laughter, the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke, male voices booming and groaning intermittently, sometimes there’d be singing downstairs. Clara had undressed and gone to bed, but lay sleepless. Had she done the right thing? Would Mary Johnson really throw her out? Would Hannah go with her if she did? Clara doubted Empress Kate would take her in after insulting one of her guests. And Empress Kate probably wouldn’t take Hannah into her house anyway. Clara bit the skin inside her mouth. If Reilly had seen her, it was possible he could tell Papa. She sat straight up in bed. But maybe Reilly didn’t know where Papa was. That was possible, too. Papa had left Geneva after Mrs. Purcell died. Maybe she had a chance. Yes. She had a good chance.
Papa hadn’t been good friends with Reilly the way he had with Sam Weston. But then, what if Reilly told Sam Weston and Sam Weston told Papa? She lay back down, then after a few minutes, sat up again picturing Reilly and Weston talking, then lay back down. Did Reilly know Weston? She couldn’t remember.
After fretting for hours about Papa and Mary Johnson and Hannah and Reilly, Clara began to drift toward sleep but then heard the girls coming in downstairs. It was after dawn. They were giggling and chattering in high, excited voices. As they came up the stairs, they were finishing up stories about the gents from the ball, then saying goodnight to each other and going off to their rooms.
Her doorknob clicked. She sat up.
“
Hannah?”
She could just make out Mary Johnson’s figure in the dark. In silence, Mary Johnson lit the wall sconce, then came and stood at the foot of the bed.
Damn
. Mary Johnson was
jo-fire
going to boot her out of the house. She could feel it.
“
For Christ’s sake, Clara, I told you what would happen if you embarrassed me.” She slammed the door, then came and stood close. “Mr. Livingston was furious. He insulted Empress Kate in front of a half dozen people and stormed out. No one cares much for Mr. Livingston, but it doesn’t matter. If anything like that happens again, Empress Kate will cut me and my house out of her parties.”
“
I’m sorry.”
“
I told Kate you were taken ill.” She paused, waiting, but Clara said nothing. “Well, were you? People said they saw you run out the back saying you needed air.”
Clara turned and dangled her legs off the side of the bed. It would be easy to say she was ill, just the way it was easy to tell Mr. Livingston that she had forgotten something. Mary Johnson was angry, but so far Clara had told her the truth about everything except her age. She had told her about Papa and Weston and Reilly that first day at the interview. And she had told Mary Johnson about Mrs. Purcell dying, and about how some people, including the sheriff, thought Papa might have killed Mrs. Purcell, and how Papa had disappeared, and how she had Euphora hidden away at Mrs. Hogarth’s. Everything.
“
I saw one of the men, one of them that Papa had me do the other thing with, back in Geneva. Mr. Reilly. I was afraid he’d see me, then somehow Papa would find out I was here. I got the all-overs and had to rush out.”
“
What could your father do to you now? You’re free of him.”
“
If he finds me, he’ll make me go with him.” A shiver ran down her back. She wrapped her arms around herself. “He’ll make me tell him where Euphora is and he’ll sell her to men, like he did me.”
Mary Johnson sat down on the bed close to her. She smelled like cigars and flowery perfume. “How can he force you to go with him if you don’t want to?”
“
He’s my father.”
“
But you left him. Why would you have to go with him now?”
“
He’d take me. I don’t know. He has ways of making me do things.”
Mary Johnson sat there a while, her big shoulders slumping, her jaw shifting slowly, eyes squinting. She seemed like she might cry, like she was remembering something sad, but it was too long ago to cry over anymore. Then she drew in a long breath, squared her shoulders, and sighed.
“
I’m not throwing you out. This time. We’re going to tell everyone you were deathly ill. If you pull one more blunder like that. Just one. You’re out. I don’t care how pretty you are.” Mary Johnson rose up tall as a tree and set her iron-brown eyes on Clara. “If your father ends up finding you here at the house, you call for me.”
Clara hopped off the bed and started to reach out to embrace Mary Johnson, but she caught herself. No one embraced the madam.
“
Thank you.”
Mary Johnson lingered a half moment glancing around the room from spot to spot. Clara waited, sure she was about to say something else, maybe tell her a story about herself or another girl, but she didn’t. Finally Mary Johnson left and Clara ran to find Hannah.
Forty-Five
IZZIE SKIMMED OVER the morning’s trance letter. There was something about the universe, something about the seasons, higher purposes of humanity, something funny about a cat. As usual, there was nothing that could help her find her sisters. Her letters were becoming philosophical. They were interesting to Anna and Mrs. Fielding and Roland, but not to her.
She picked up the papers. “Thank you for guiding me again, Anna. You are a dear friend.”
“
I love seeing what comes of these communications.”
“
They aren’t enough, though. They aren’t helping me find my sisters. Do you think Mrs. Fielding will ever let me back into her spirit circles?” Izzie asked.
Anna winced. “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid.”
They walked together into the social parlor. Anna was right. Izzie had been a fool to embarrass her mentor that way. The morning after the Grand Circle, when Mrs. Fielding had calmed down, she told Izzie she was still fond of her, that Izzie was welcome in her home and could continue to look for her sisters, but she was absolutely not welcome in her spirit circles.
At least she wouldn’t be thrown out onto the street, which she probably deserved. If Izzie stayed, Mrs. Fielding said she would expect Izzie to assist her in setting up furniture, starting the fire, keeping their supplies in order, and writing correspondence. But finally, she’d said, “My reputation is severely compromised and I cannot be publicly associated with you in the Spiritualist community. I will not waver on this.”
Anna was chattering on about Izzie’s description of the gray cat in her trance letter and how often animals appeared in communications while she led Izzie out to the front foyer. Anna began looking through the morning mail.
There was a knock at the front door and Izzie strode over to answer it. It was an errand boy, short and tired looking with circles under his eyes. He held out a large, flat package addressed to Mrs. Isabelle MacAdams. Izzie took it from him, brought it to the table where Anna stood, and set it down.
“
What is it?” Anna grinned.
Izzie untied the brown string and unfolded the wrapping. It was the charcoal drawing of the ship in the storm done by the painting medium at the Grand Circle. Her heart pinched a little remembering that awful day—that day she had lost so much hope.
She read the note. “I thought you would like to have this. Yours truly, Mrs. Kendall, Boston, Massachusetts.” Izzie immediately folded the paper back over the drawing and tied the string.
“
There’s a letter from Mac here.” Anna waved an envelope at Izzie.
Mac. Her first letter since he’d gone away angry. She couldn’t face reading it just then. She took it from Anna and slid it into her dress pocket.
“
I’ll read it later. I am going out now. I’m going searching at a few assignation houses today. Tell Mrs. Fielding I’ll be back to set up for the circle tonight, would you?”
Izzie had several addresses that were all the way down near City Hall Park. By the time she got down there, her legs felt heavy and she decided to sit on a bench in the park for a while before visiting the houses.
She found a spot in the sun and settled down. In the flowerbeds, yellow and white narcissus were in bloom. She thought about Mrs. Purcell and her gardens and wondered who was tending them this spring. Three girls tossed peanuts at a cluster of pigeons nearby. The sun was sweet and warm on her face. Tilting her head back and closing her eyes a moment, she soaked it in.
The three little girls screeched in unison, causing the pigeons to gurgle and flutter up and away. Suddenly she remembered Mac’s letter and pulled it from her pocket.
My Dearest Izzie,
Good news! You received a letter from your brother Billy and I took the liberty of reading it. He has found employment on a merchant ship, a clipper, and has sailed for China to bring back tea and silk and Chinese laborers. The letter was sent from San Francisco. He asked after Clara and Euphora. It seems he believes they are still in Geneva. His letter reveals no knowledge of anything that occurred since he ran away, so we can presume there has been no correspondence with either sister.
The Upper Falls Water-Cure is attracting more customers and patients every day. Last week the Rochester Advertiser and Union carried a story about me and the new establishment. People have begun to come by in their carriages to visit. I give them tours of the building and the treatment rooms, but am only able to ask them to imagine what the gardens and walkways will be like when they are planted later. The first few patients have been quite satisfied and promise to return. As I write this, a few are down the hall with two aides getting pummeled by the douche bath.
I am proud, of course, but I miss you terribly. I had hoped we would share this moment, that it would be our moment, not just mine.
More importantly, I wish to tell you that I have taken it upon myself to understand what I can of Spiritualism so that I might understand your predicament better, my dear. I have called upon a number of well-regarded citizens in the community, Isaac and Mary Post, Mr. G.B. Stebbins, and a Mrs. Edgeworth, among others. They all believe that the voices that disturbed so many of your nights were spirits and that you must be a very powerful medium because the spirits were calling you as opposed to your calling them. Mr. Stebbins told me that the voices were a natural demonstration of your gift and that every medium must learn to exploit her or his gift in their own unique way.
In truthfulness, I cannot say I believe all this as irrefutable fact. I do, however, believe these are fine people and they have given me much to consider late at night when I have longed for you.
I want you to come home to me. I want you to be my wife again. If you wish to practice Spiritualism, I will accept it. If you wish to have children, I will welcome them into my heart. Anything you want to do will be acceptable to me just as long as you are my wife here by my side. And should your sisters or brother appear here on our doorstep, they are welcome too. I have had many long, lonely hours to think all this through. I would give you anything in the world if you will only come home.