The Seance (21 page)

If Ada had asked me directly whether something else was troubling me, I think I should have spoken, but she naturally blamed my anxiety and depression of spirits upon the confrontation with my mother. I said nothing about the apparition in my long letter to Edward, and endured
several days of foreboding – he had warned me that he was a very poor correspondent – before a cheerful note from Cumbria banished the wildest of my fears. All was well, he wrote; he was sure that his father would give us his blessing, and that my mother would ‘come round in time’. ‘I have begun a new canvas,’ he wrote, ‘for which I have great hopes – it may be another fortnight before I see you again, my darling girl, but do write every day, and forgive me if I do not. I shall make it up to you when I return.’

For Ada, who had always been on the most affectionate terms with her own mother and sisters, the idea of a permanent breach was almost unthinkable.

‘You must try and make it up with her, Nell,’ she said, as we were walking back from the village one day. ‘It would be a terrible thing, to lose your mother for ever, no matter what has passed between you.’

‘But she has forced me to choose between her and Edward,’ I said. ‘Blood is not always thicker than water – it sounds strange, when you turn it that way round, but Sophie and I have not been close since we were children, and I have been nothing but a disappointment to Mama. What I really fear is that she will make trouble with the bishop once Sophie is married; I shall never forgive myself if George loses his living because of me.’

‘I don’t think she will do that,’ said Ada. ‘Making a scandal after the wedding would still be an embarrassment to Sophie. You must see, Nell, that there is nothing unreasonable, from society’s point of view, in her wanting you both to make good marriages – don’t frown, dearest, you know very well what I mean. I know how difficult she can be, but I pray, nonetheless, that you will be reconciled. If something were to happen to George and me—’

‘But you just said you don’t think she will make trouble,’ I replied uneasily. ‘And I would rather live upon bread and water in a hovel with Edward than go back to Mama, even if she would have me.’

‘You would not speak so lightly of hovels if you had a child,’ said Ada
quietly. ‘What I meant was: supposing you were left quite alone in the world, you would bitterly regret this estrangement.’

I thought of her own sorrow, and changed the subject, but I could not help wondering if Ada felt I had treated my mother harshly, whereas I could not see what else I could have done, for her sake as much as my own, and so the question hung between us like an unspoken reproach. Which was perhaps why, the following afternoon, I broke with our usual custom of walking together after luncheon, and slipped quietly out of the house on my own.

Though it was still supposedly high summer, the air was cool and damp, the sky a steely grey. I let my feet carry me where they chose, which turned out to be southward, along the path George had taken us on the day we first met Edward. Absorbed in my thoughts, I did not notice how far I had come until the path began to climb, and I realised that Monks Wood lay just beyond the skyline. Gorse and tussocky grass stretched away from me on every side; there was no sign or sound of life except for the distant bleating of sheep and the desolate cries of birds. In George and Ada’s company, the loneliness had seemed merely picturesque; now I felt suddenly small and conspicuous.

As I stood wondering whether to go on or retreat, a figure on horseback appeared upon the ridge ahead of me, heading away to my left, then paused, as if the rider were surveying the prospect. To my alarm he turned and began to descend, making directly for me. Not knowing what to do, I stood motionless, with my heart beating very fast as the horse drew nearer, until the figure in the saddle resolved itself first as a tall man with a short black beard, and then as Magnus Wraxford.

‘I thought I recognised you, Miss Unwin. This is a lonely place to be walking,’ he said as he drew up a few paces from me. He was dressed like a country gentleman on his way to the hunt, in a short black riding jacket and white stock, russet-coloured breeches and polished boots.

‘I wished to be alone,’ I said, and immediately regretted the words as too intimate.

‘Then I apologise for disturbing your solitude,’ he said, smiling down at me, but making no move to turn his horse. Again I had the uncomfortable sensation that my thoughts were on display.

‘I did not mean that, sir, only . . .’ I did not know what else to say.

‘Then, if I am not intruding, may I accompany you?’

‘I thank you, sir, but I have come far enough today. I must return to Chalford, which would take you far out of your way.’

‘Not in the least, Miss Unwin; I shall be delighted, if you will permit me, and my horse will be glad of the rest.’
He means to question me about my ‘friend’
, I thought. It was on the tip of my tongue to decline, when I realised I must ask him not to speak of my engagement and so agreed, whereupon he dismounted and began to walk beside me, leading his horse by the bridle. I was relieved that he did not press me to take his arm.

At first we – or rather he – made small talk, while I tried to summon the courage to say what I must, for Ada and George’s sake. He had just been out to the Hall, he told me, to see what might be done with it; the judgment in the case of his uncle Cornelius’s decease was now imminent, though it would be many months before probate was settled. I remembered him saying that the Hall would be an ideal setting for his experiment into clairvoyance, which unnerved me further. Yet in spite of my unease it struck me that here was an opportunity which might never come again. He had talked of the power of mesmerism in curing nervous illness; he had divined, I felt sure, that I had been speaking of myself; so why not ask him if he knew of some treatment which might prevent any further visitations? My replies became more and more distracted as the idea grew upon me, until it was only natural for him to ask whether something was troubling me.

Hesitantly and with many misgivings, I told him all about my visitations, from the sleepwalking and the fall to the moment of recognition
in the drawing-room a week ago. He listened intently – indeed, it seemed to me, with admiration – asking very few questions until I had done.

‘I hope you will understand, sir,’ I said in conclusion, ‘that this – this affliction is profoundly distressing to me. You mentioned, when you dined with us, the possibility of a lesion of the brain, which would heal itself in time, but if there is any immediate remedy for these visitations I should be very grateful to hear of it. I have very little money, and most likely could not afford to be treated, but it would be a relief, at least, to
know
—’

‘My dear Miss Unwin,’ he broke in, sounding almost offended, ‘let me assure you that my professional knowledge is entirely at your disposal. All other considerations aside, your case is unique in my experience, and it will be an honour and a privilege to assist you in any way I can.

‘Let me confess at once that if you were not resolved to be rid of these visitations, as you call them, I should be fascinated to see what followed. I spoke, the other evening, of an injury to the brain, and later of clairvoyance: listening to your much fuller account today, I am more than ever convinced that the two are not necessarily incompatible. Of course we do not even know, for certain, that clairvoyance exists – these are uncharted waters – but do not fear, Miss Unwin, I shall do my best to ensure that your visitations do not recur. Mesmeric suggestion is, I think, the most promising avenue, though I shall have to give some thought as to exactly what to suggest . . . I shall be staying with Mr Montague for another few days; if it suited you, I could call at the rectory – and no, I insist, the only question is whether you will allow me to try the treatment, knowing that I cannot absolutely guarantee its success.’

He waved away all of my objections about inconveniencing him or taking up his time, and assured me that everything would be in the strictest confidence between us; he suggested, indeed, that if I did not want George and Ada to be anxious on my behalf, I could tell them that the treatment was for my headaches, and it ended with my agreeing that he should call at the rectory at three o’clock on the day after tomorrow.

‘There is one other kindness I would ask of you, sir,’ I said. ‘For – for various reasons, I feel it will be best if Mr Ravenscroft and I do not formally announce our engagement until after my sister’s marriage in November, and so I should be grateful if the news could be kept within our small circle here ...’

‘But of course,’ he replied, ‘and, if you like, I will mention it to Mr Montague. And now that St Mary’s is in sight, I shall trespass no further upon your solitude. Until Friday, Miss Unwin – my compliments to Mr and Mrs Woodward.’ Waving away my thanks once more, he swung himself up into the saddle, and spurred his horse in the direction of the Aldeburgh road. I had expected him to accompany me all the way to the rectory, and was relieved that I would not have to explain his presence immediately, and yet his sudden departure left me feeling there had been something clandestine about our meeting. It was not until he was almost out of sight that I realised he could not possibly have recognised me at that distance.

At three o’clock precisely on Friday afternoon, Dr Wraxford appeared at the rectory, dressed this time in a dark suit, high collar and tall hat. I had spent much of the interval regretting my impulse to confide in him; Ada had asked me several times if I was sure my trouble had not returned, and reproached me for recklessness in venturing so far alone into the marshlands. I did not like keeping secrets from her; still less the feeling that I had betrayed Edward by revealing more about myself to Dr Wraxford than I was willing to reveal to him; and Dr Wraxford’s insistence on treating me as a friend rather than a patient had made me all the more uneasy. But it was done now, and all I could hope was that his treatment would prove effective.

Hetty showed him into the small sitting-room where I had chosen to wait; Ada had tactfully remained upstairs, saying she would join me when
the consultation was over. But as the door closed behind Hetty, I felt so uncomfortable that I was sorely tempted to run upstairs, confess everything, and ask Ada to sit with me during the treatment.

‘Now, Miss Unwin,’ he said, as if in answer to the thought, ‘I assure you that you have nothing to fear. The very worst thing that can happen is that my suggestion will not help; in which case you are no worse off. All that is necessary is for you to allow me to mesmerise you. And then, in essence, I will instruct your mind to reject any extrasensuous data which may be presented to it – in the waking state, that is – no matter what the source. You will not be conscious of my instruction at the time, nor will you recall anything of it when you are woken from your trance. It may be necessary to repeat the treatment on several occasions before it becomes fully effective, but the principle is straightforward.

‘There is one potential obstacle,’ he continued. ‘For the treatment to succeed, you must place your entire trust in me; otherwise your mind will not be receptive to mesmeric suggestion. Therefore, if you have any reservation about placing yourself in my hands, pray speak now.’

‘No, sir, I have every confidence in you,’ I said hesitantly, ‘only – I am a little apprehensive about the mesmerism. Might Ada sit with me while you—?’

‘There, I fear, we reach an impasse. Your awareness of her presence, even in the trance, would prevent you from attending solely to my suggestions, and so render them ineffective. Stage mesmerists, of course, perform in front of an audience, but when it is done for a serious purpose ...’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘Then I shall try my hardest to compose myself.’

‘You must, rather, seek to relax your will, just as if you were tired and wished to go to sleep; all you need do is watch, and listen.’

At his direction I settled myself in an armchair, with my arms resting along the sides and my head supported by a cushion. He placed a small occasional table immediately before me, with an upright chair on the other side of it, directly facing me. Then he took a single candle from the mantelpiece, lit it, and set it in the centre of the table between us
before drawing the curtains and taking his own seat. Dazzled by the flame of the candle, I could see nothing beyond the circle of light in which we sat. Dr Wraxford’s face seem to hang unsupported in the darkness opposite. The light accentuated the contours of his cheekbones and eye sockets; the pupils of his eyes were as black as polished jet, holding the twinned reflections of the candle flame.