The Seance (27 page)

I waited for him to continue, but he did not. All eyes turned to me, as if I were an actress who had missed her cue.

‘Experiment?’ I said, hating the tremor in my voice.

‘Yes, my dear,’ said Magnus. ‘You will recall, I am sure, the evening of our first meeting, when I remarked that the Hall would be the ideal setting for a séance – to be conducted on strictly scientific principles – which might settle, once and for all, the question of survival. Mrs Bryant takes a great interest in spiritualism, and is very keen to participate, as is Dr Rhys.’

‘Indeed I am,’ said Godwin Rhys. He glanced at Mrs Bryant, made a show of consulting his watch, and rose to his feet. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I am afraid I must leave you – an urgent appointment, you know. Delighted to have met you, Mrs Wraxford; I look forward to renewing our acquaintance very soon.’

His departure was too obviously contrived for me to take any comfort in the fact that there were no longer two physicians in the room. I expected Magnus to continue, but instead Mrs Bryant addressed herself to me.

‘With so much unthinking prejudice abroad, Mrs Wraxford, this is an opportunity not to be missed. Do you know that my own son sought to have me confined to an asylum, simply for attending Mr Harper’s sittings?’

I shook my head mechanically.

‘And so, Mrs Wraxford,’ she persisted, ‘I am sure you see our difficulty. I have been so grievously disappointed by spirit mediums – including Mr Harper, though that does not excuse my son’s monstrous behaviour – that I had almost despaired of ever communicating with my dear father again, until your husband ... so refreshing, to meet a man of science with a genuinely open mind . . . but to the point. I understand, Mrs Wraxford, that you are a gifted medium, yet you refuse to exercise your gift.’

For a long moment I was speechless, while Mrs Bryant regarded me with feigned concern. Then the blood rushed to my face, and I found that I was speaking.

‘No, Mrs Bryant, you are mistaken. It is a curse, not a gift; I cannot control it, and would not exercise it if I could. And now you must excuse me; I shall wait in the carriage.’

I rose and turned without a glance at Magnus and walked towards the door on legs that would barely support me, praying I would not collapse before I passed through it. Anger carried me down the staircase and out on to the pavement, where a bewildered Alfred ushered me into the carriage. Only when I was seated, and trembling violently from the reaction, did I realise that I had played right into Magnus’s hands. I realised too that I had compounded my humiliation by saying I would wait, but before I could make up my mind to tell Alfred to drive off, Magnus had appeared on the front steps.

To my surprise he seemed positively cheerful as he settled himself beside me.

‘I must apologise, my dear,’ he said amiably, ‘for Mrs Bryant’s lack of tact. She is accustomed, as you see, to having her own way.’

‘Why did you – how could you—’ I was about to say ‘humiliate me so’, but the words died at the thought of the humiliation I had inflicted upon him.

‘I thought, my dear, given that relations between us have been a little – strained, that the request might come better from Mrs Bryant than from me.’

‘How could you possibly think that?’ I cried. ‘I should far rather you had asked me yourself – not that I should have agreed – than betray me to that vain, vulgar woman—’ I was about to add, ‘who is either your mistress, or wishes to be’, but restrained myself in time.

‘Vain and vulgar she may be, my dear, but she is also our patron. She has already contributed generously to my work, and if we are fortunate enough to witness a genuine manifestation at the Hall, her largesse will be assured ... which is why I should like you to reconsider your refusal.’

‘You wish me, in other words, to be party to a fraud.’

‘You of all people, my dear, should know me better than that. This is
to be a scientific experiment, conducted before witnesses; it requires only your presence, I assure you.’

‘You expect me, then, to accompany you to that unholy place, where my – where Edward died.’

‘Yes, my dear.’ He spoke in the same genial tone, but now there was an edge to his voice like the whisper of steel on steel, a sword eased in its sheath.

‘And – if I refuse?’

‘I am sure you will not, my dear. Your health is still delicate; I think you need a little time in the country.’

‘But I am nursing Clara, and cannot be parted from her, and the Hall is no place for an infant.’

‘Then perhaps it is time you weaned her. That is one of your symptoms, my dear, your unnecessary anxiety over the child. I have not asked anything of you, before this; you will agree, I am sure, that I could not have been a more indulgent husband.’

He waited for me to contradict him, but this time I dared not.

‘Very well then; I shall leave it to you to decide about the child. You may bring her with you if you wish, and speak to Bolton about what you require in the way of rooms. He and I shall be going down tomorrow to prepare for Mrs Bryant’s visit in three weeks’ time.’

‘And – after this? How many more séances shall you require me to attend?’

‘With luck, my dear, none. And if all goes as I hope, perhaps we can then discuss – our future living arrangements. Ah, I see we are approaching Cavendish Square. There is a gentleman here I need to consult. Until this evening, my dear.’

Magnus did not return until late, and had left for the Hall before I came down to breakfast the following morning. Several times during that day I gathered Clara in my arms with the intention of fleeing, only to remind myself that I had nowhere to flee to. Lucy was plainly aware of my
distress, but I had never confided in her, and dared not now. Though Magnus had made his threat as plain as if he had waved a certificate of insanity under my nose, he could have spoken those words before witnesses, and denied on oath that he intended any such thing – as easily as he could deny, if he chose, that he had held out the promise of a separation.

But if he was planning a fraud, how could my presence possibly help him? Mrs Bryant had behaved abominably, but how could he be sure I would not secretly warn her? Or betray him after the event? There was only one way he could be certain of that. Unless it was
not
to be a fraud, and Magnus truly believed that a spirit would appear: I had foreseen Edward’s death in a visitation, and he had died at the Hall...I tried to push the thought away, but it hovered all day in the darkest corners of my mind, and in this uneasy state I went to bed.

I woke – as I thought – at dawn, with a terrible sense of foreboding. The room was like my old bedroom at Highgate, but I knew somehow that I was in Wraxford Hall. Then I recalled, with a jolt of horror that seemed to tear my heart out of my chest, that I had been walking with Clara in Monks Wood the previous afternoon, and had left her asleep beneath a tree. I flung myself out of bed, threw open the door, and began to run along the passage. I had passed Lucy’s door before I realised that I was now awake in fact, and standing at the head of the stairs in grey twilight, with my heart pounding violently.

The house was completely silent. I stole back along the corridor to the nursery – which was between Lucy’s room and my own – and softly opened the door.

A woman was leaning over the cradle. She had her back to me, but I could see that she was young, with hair very like mine, and wearing a pale blue gown that looked strangely familiar. As I stood petrified in the
doorway, she lifted Clara in her arms and turned to face me. She was myself. For a long, frozen moment we remained thus, and then she and Clara began to shrink into themselves, just as the apparition in the drawing-room had done, until there was nothing but a streak of livid green light floating between me and the cradle. Then that too vanished; the floor swung up and struck me on the temple, and I heard, in the far distance, the sound of Clara’s crying before darkness swallowed me.

Wednesday evening

Today I stood at the place where Edward died. The cable he tried to climb is thick with rust, which runs in a dark stain down the wall. When I first saw the Hall yesterday, I thought it had been painted a dingy shade of green, but the walls are covered in lichen, speckled with mould and riven with cracks; the ground beneath is strewn with fragments of mortar. I was resolved not to weep, knowing that Bolton would be watching me, though there was no one in sight.

If Edward had never met me, he would be alive today. So I torment myself, but if he had stayed with me, that fateful day, we would be married now, and Clara would be his child. (I wrote that unthinkingly, but the thought is often with me: I have never seen anything of Magnus in her, whereas I often fancy she has Edward’s eyes – the same shade of hazel, flecked with a darker brown.) I will not –
must
not – believe that he was doomed to die – or that Clara and I are doomed because of this last visitation. Perhaps I was mad to bring her here – but what else could I have done? If I had left her at Munster Square with a nurse I did not know, and something had happened to her ... no, I could not.

Why
did he do it? Was it mere curiosity – to see what was in the gallery? A light where no light should have been? Or was he fleeing from something? The forest is dark enough even in daylight; by moonlight it
would be all too easy to imagine terrors – as I keep imagining I can hear soft footsteps moving across the floor above my head. But when I lay down my pen to listen, I hear only the beating of my heart.

Thursday evening

Mr Montague called this afternoon. I thought at first that Magnus had sent him to spy on me, but he said he had come of his own accord. I had just settled Clara to sleep, and rather than converse in the gloom downstairs (with Bolton lurking in the shadows) I suggested we walk around to a seat beneath my window, where I could hear Clara if she cried. He is markedly thinner than when I saw him last, and his hair is streaked with grey.

He told me that Magnus has invited him to witness the séance, which is to take place this Saturday evening; he was startled to learn that I did not know this. I do not think he and Magnus are as close as formerly: the invitation came by way of a brief note, which said nothing of Mrs Bryant or Dr Rhys, or of what is to take place. But he spoke warmly of Edward, and confessed that his apparent dislike had been propelled by envy – of his youth, his talent and his good looks, and so I feel more kindly towards him. He is plainly uneasy – as who would not be? – about the séance. I believe he is an honest and scrupulous man, and I feel a little less fearful, knowing he will be present.

All the time we were speaking, there was no sound from the house at my back, but I was acutely aware of row upon row of windows looking down upon us. As he walked away across the ragged grass, a faint movement in the shadow of the old coach house caught my eye. It was Bolton, watching from the entrance; when he saw that I had observed him, he slipped behind a wall and disappeared.