The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (11 page)

“She liked to sit on the balcony and look at the changing colors in the water from the dyer. You’ve seen the colors, I believe?”

She knew I had. She had been watching. “Yes. Very beautiful.”

“The water was red the day she died,” Madame said, her gaze going briefly distant, then a blink and back to me. “She loved the Venetian scarlet best. She could not keep away. It was an accident. The balcony was slick from the rain, and the rail too low. She slipped and . . . Ah, you must forgive a grieving mother her stories. I think sometimes I want her back so badly I have conjured her. Perhaps the voice I hear is only my longing. Perhaps the chair moving is a mirage born of grief.”

“It must be a comfort to know she is with God now.”

“But then I know it is not my imagination,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard me. “I know these are messages from her. I know there is something she wishes to tell me, but she hasn’t the strength to come to me.”

Her eyes glittered. Such talk as this, such grieving. I knew where it could lead if not relieved. I’d seen it too often in the asylum.

I said quietly, “Perhaps a doctor could help you.”

“A doctor?”

“Or perhaps the church—”

She laughed bitterly. “The church believes ghosts can only be evil. My daughter is not a demon.”

“Of course not. I’m certain she is with God, and content. You should think of that. It would give you some measure of peace.”

“She is an angel. She is trying to show us the truth.”

God’s truth, no doubt. Madame Basilio had the look of one who attended mass daily. “Yes, of course.”

She seemed to crumple before me, her proud expression sagging, the steel of her spine bending. She looked defeated, exhausted, even ill.

“Madame, are you all right?”

She rose. “I think it is time that you return to your patient.”

What had I said? I set down the coffee and the fritter. “As you wish.”

She followed me to the doorway, nostrils flaring, high points of red on her pallid, sallow cheeks, and then snapped out “Giulia!” and the housekeeper emerged from another room so quickly I suspected she’d been eavesdropping.

“Show Mademoiselle Spira to the door.”

An impudent, smug smile crossed Giulia’s lips, and she gestured to the receiving hall. “This way, mamzelle.”

“I can find my own way out.” I turned to Madame Basilio, still uncertain, feeling I should apologize and not knowing why. “Thank you for the coffee, Madame.”

She only waved her hand at me and turned away. I felt I’d insulted her, though I had no idea how.

When I stepped out, the outside was somehow warmer than the sala had been, though still cold and wet. The snow from yesterday was already mostly gone; the sky was overcast, but it wasn’t raining. I hurried up the stairs, wanting to speak to Mr. Basilio about the things his aunt had said. He had said she wanted only to impugn his character, but she had not done that at all. What had been the reason for this tea? To talk of ghosts? To speak of Samuel’s well-being?

I reached the third floor and opened the door. Inside, it was quiet; I heard no talk or laughter, which I’d expected. Perhaps Samuel had fallen asleep. I immediately quieted my own steps, not wanting to wake him, and headed toward his bedroom, thinking to peek in, expecting to see Mr. Basilio sitting in a chair at his bedside, perhaps reading.

But as I passed my room, I saw the door was ajar. Which was not so unusual, except . . . I slowed at the sound of rustling from within. Someone was inside.

I heard a quiet bang. A whispered curse. Carefully, I opened the door.

I took it in in a glance. The medicine case was on my bed, opened, bottles and boxes and paper-wrapped bundles scattered over the coverlet. And standing beside it, a bottle of laudanum in his hand, was Samuel.

Chapter 13

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

Samuel jerked around, panic on his face, and then when he saw it was me the expression changed to relief—
relief
, when I had just caught him in
my
medicine case; why should it be relief?—and then to pleading. “Elena, please.” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “You don’t know. You couldn’t know. Just a few drops. Please.”

I stepped toward him, holding out my hand. “Give it to me, Samuel.”

He clutched the bottle of laudanum more tightly and stepped back. “Elena, listen to me. It’s only for today. Just today and then I’ll give it up. I promise you I will. My head . . . you don’t know. Please.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t.” Resentment and anger. His fingers were white where they gripped the bottle. “But think about it. What could it harm, really? I’m not sleeping. I see things.”

“Where’s Mr. Basilio? I suppose he was part of this plan too?”

“No. I’ve no idea where he is. He never showed up.”

That was one good thing, anyway. “Give it to me, Samuel.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.” His tone changed, wheedling now. “You’ve a half dozen Baedekers here. Choose one and I’ll send you there. Hell, choose all of them. I can give you the money to disappear, to be whatever you want, to do whatever you wish.”

It was as if he saw inside me.

“I’m a rich man,” he whispered, taking a step toward me. “You want more than this. I can give it to you. All for the price of this bottle.”

“Just a few drops. Enough to help me sleep. I’m not mad. You know I’m not. You believe me, don’t you? We’ll run away together. I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

The words tangled in my head, the past and the present knotting, trapping me. I looked at Samuel and I saw Joshua. Those same intense eyes. The lies I wanted to believe.

You want more.

Yes, that was the truth. And here he offered it, anything I wanted. Anything at all.

They lie.

My father’s voice. Everything I already knew. Joshua Lockwood’s casket in the middle of the great hall, waiting to be carted away. My mother’s tears.

“No,” I whispered. “Give it to me, Samuel.”

The incipient triumph on his face crumpled. His eyes flashed with sudden rage. He threw the laudanum onto the bed, where it bounced and dropped against the pillow. “Why the hell are you so persistent?”

“Because I made a mistake.” The words flew out before I could stop them.

Samuel stilled. “What mistake?”

It was none of his concern. I did not want him to know more about me than he already did. I felt my vulnerability like a wound—I knew he would see it, that he would poke at it.

“What mistake, Elena?” His rage was banked; still there, but controlled. “One that will take your whole life to redeem? If I have to suffer, at least tell me why.”

“I believed someone I shouldn’t have believed.”

“How did that bring you here?”

I struggled to find a way to call back the words, to unsay them, but it was too late, and I reluctantly realized that he would not forget my indiscretion. He would keep prying and needling until I told him everything. I could not withstand him forever, and perhaps, if I told him now, he would understand why I wouldn’t walk away and he would stop tormenting me with his bargains and his quid pro quos. Perhaps he would even help me. I clung to that possibility as I told him all of it: Joshua Lockwood, my unwanted marriage, the six months promised me, my hopes to find within that time a way to escape my fate.

He laughed shortly. “My God, the irony is staggering. My forced marriage frees you from yours.”

“I hope so.”

“You feel as trapped as I do.”

I raised my eyes to him, my heart racing with hope of his sympathy. “Yes.”

“But you’d rather ask me to give up my freedom than lose your own. You’ll understand that I don’t feel inclined to make such a sacrifice.”

“It’s not just me,” I whispered. “My father . . . my mistake has cost him. The scandal . . . He was forced from Glen Echo. Your parents have promised him his own asylum. They’ve promised to restore his reputation.”

“I don’t care.”

“But it wasn’t his fault! He didn’t do anything! He’s worked his entire life for a place like Glen Echo. He’s a good superintendent and an excellent doctor—you know this. It’s not fair to take that away from him because I was a fool.”

“He put his trust in you, and you failed him,” Samuel said coolly. “A captain goes down with his ship. A leader never deserts his men. Use any trite saying you like. The end result is that he misplaced his trust. He’s paying for a lack of judgment. That seems deserved to me.”

“Samuel, please!”

He sat heavily on the bed. The bottles and jars rolled into his hip as the mattress sagged beneath his weight. “I think we’re at an impasse, don’t you? I don’t want to go back and neither do you. I’m sorry for your father, but whatever happened had nothing to do with me. I don’t want to pay the price for it.”

“You’d rather we fight one another constantly?”

“That’s not necessary, Elena. We could each have what we want. All you have to do is say yes to what I’m offering.”

I shook my head, my throat tight. “My parents . . .”

“You’d sacrifice your life for them?”

“Wouldn’t you?” I asked. “For your parents?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “Why should I? They’ve been ashamed of me since my affliction first showed its ugly head. My whole life has been one of secrets and lies. I wonder if you can imagine the burden of it?”

“I have some idea,” I said. “These last two weeks, keeping it from everyone . . .”

“Imagine a lifetime of it. It would have been easier if I’d had a brother or sister, I think. Someone else to inherit, to give them grandchildren and ensure the Farber name is on Mrs. Astor’s invitation list.” He snorted. “They would rather that, you know. It frightens the hell out of them that I might pass this flaw to another generation, but they can’t bear the thought of everything ending with me.”

“Perhaps you won’t,” I said. “It might not be hereditary in your case. It can also be caused by—”

“Licentiousness. Yes, I know. Do you know how old I was when I had my first seizure?”

I shook my head.

“Ten. I hardly knew what my cock was for.” He laughed at my shock over his vulgarity. “Please God, you
are
something. Nero was right about your blushing. Very pretty. Like a tea rose.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. It won’t change my mind.”

“A pity.” He sighed and rubbed his brow. “God, I’m tired. I’m so tired. What I would give to sleep without nightmares . . .”

“The laudanum would only make your nightmares worse.”

He looked at me hopefully. “I can think of something else that might help.”

“What would that be?”

“Come to bed with me. Let me fuck you until we’re both exhausted.”

I backed up so violently I hit the wall.

He laughed wryly. “Well. It was only a suggestion.”

“I am not . . . I would not . . . to say such things—” I broke off when I saw his gaze jerk past me, to the doorway. I looked over my shoulder. There was nothing there. When I looked at him again, his expression had changed. His eyes were almost black with fear, and something else too. As if he couldn’t look away, as much as he might want to. As if he were compelled to stare.

It was a look that frightened me, because I did not see him in it. Which sounds absurd, I know, but that was what I felt. And then . . . cold. Icy cold surged into the room with such intensity my skin felt rimed with frost.

“Samuel,” I whispered urgently. “Samuel.”

He didn’t move. Only stared. It was as if he were listening to something beyond us both. An indicator of another seizure, or another petit mal.

Or something else completely.
Dear God, what? What was this?
It was all I could do to touch his shoulder.

He jerked, and I started, yanking my hand back, hastening away, adrenalin rushing hot. He blinked, and then . . . then he was there again. The cold eased as suddenly as it had come. I could no longer see my breath. No more reflections, or tingling unease.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He looked at me as if he didn’t understand who I was or what I was doing there. Then, his vision cleared. He buried his face in his hands, a quiet moan of distress.

“What is it?” I asked. “What were you looking at? What did you see?”

“She was only in my dreams at first.” His voice was so low and muffled I had to strain to hear it. “But now . . . now I see her everywhere.”

“Who? Who do you see?”

“I think it’s Laura Basilio.”

Madame Basilio had said her daughter’s ghost roamed the halls. What had she told Samuel in the days before I arrived? A man who had visions before his seizures, a man whose mind was so sensitive to other stimuli that it often turned on him, should never have been brought here.

But where else was I to take him? Back to New York? In this state? He was not close to stable. Everything would be over then, any hope of reward or redemption. Perhaps there was another place to go here in the city. Another palazzo, one not so dank and sinking, one where we could actually be comfortable. A healing place.

Yet that was impossible too. To be alone with him with no chaperone. I could hire no one to help without risking his secret. His epilepsy made him unpredictable. He was dangerous not only because he could be violent but because of how intimately he challenged me. Here, at least, there were people who could help if I needed it. Madame Basilio’s presence made it all very respectable.

No, we couldn’t leave. What then was I to do with this?

My father used to say that science could explain everything. I believed it was true. There must be a reasonable cause for what was happening to Samuel. All I must do was find it.

I went to the bed, pushing aside the medicine chest and the medicines, sitting beside him, a bottle between us, digging into my thigh. I put my hand on his arm, and when he looked at me, I said, “None of this is real, Samuel. I know it feels that way, but it isn’t. It’s only that you’re so impressionable. It’s not your fault. The disease makes you that way. As you know, the bromide can make you see things too. You must remind yourself that it’s not real. None of it.”

“You don’t understand—”

“You’ve hallucinated before,” I pointed out. “Your file says it. This isn’t different, is it?”

The bleakness returned to his face. “It
is
different. These visions are more real than anything I’ve seen before.” He twisted, grabbing my hand, his fingers digging into mine. “I’m afraid I’m going mad.”

I struggled to hide my apprehension and fear. “No. It isn’t that. You must have faith that it isn’t.”

“Elena—”

“There must be something I can try. Galvanism or . . . Papa spoke of magnetism. Perhaps a mesmerist.”

He was silent, searching my face, his hand still holding mine so tightly it hurt.

“I’ll find a way,” I said. “I promise it.”

He released my hand, looking at me now as if I were something foreign and surprising. “I wonder if I would have been a different man if I’d had someone like you.”

His words surprised and saddened me, but I don’t know what I would have said to him in response, because just then the sound of the door opening and closing echoed, along with rapid boot steps striding down the hall. A shadow rushing past my bedroom door and then stopping, turning back, and there was Nero Basilio in the doorway, his gaze sweeping me, the scattered medicines, Samuel rising, anchoring himself on the bedpost to ease his knee.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Basilio said, looking distressed. “I meant to be here earlier, but I was delayed. I hope I’m not too late. I’ll apologize to my aunt on your behalf. Probably she’s still waiting for you—”

“Tea’s over,” I said, rising, the strain of the last moments turning to irritation. I began collecting the medicines. “I went without you.”

“You did?”

“No doubt it was better that way. I suppose you were planning on bringing Samuel some wine. Or perhaps something stronger? I’m so sorry to ruin your plans to ruin him.”

Mr. Basilio looked uncertain.

Samuel said, “I’ve disappointed her. She’s taking it out on you.”

“
You
should have been here,” I snapped, jabbing my finger at Nero Basilio, forgetting that I hadn’t wanted him alone with Samuel, more annoyed than I should have been over his unkept promise. “You told me you would be.”

“I’m sorry.” Then, to Samuel, “
Santa Maria
, what did you do?”

“He tried to steal the laudanum,” I said.

“That may have been the least of it.” Samuel let out his breath, wavering, clutching the bedpost more tightly. “I think I should lie down.”

“Yes, you should,” I said.

“I’ll help you,” Mr. Basilio said.

I said nothing more as the two of them left the room. I focused on setting the medicines back into their case, everything fit just so, no room for deviation, and with every bottle and package put into its place, my distress eased a bit more, order restored. If only life were so easily arranged.

I half hoped that Mr. Basilio would stay with Samuel, even as I feared the vision Samuel had seen might turn into a seizure. I wanted a few moments to restore myself. But he returned before I was ready, angling himself in the doorway, his arm bolstered on the frame above his head, hand dangling.

“You’re upset with me,” he said.

“I’m not,” I lied. “I understand you might have had other things to do than play nursemaid.”

“All I can say is that I tried.”

“Who delayed you?” I heard myself saying. “I suppose Giulia had some pressing need for happiness?”

He lowered his arm. “I should not have told you that.”

“You said you would be here. I had not expected you to take the promise so lightly.”

He closed the door.

At its soft click, I spun from the bed. “What are you doing? Leave that open.”

He held up his hands as if to ward me off. “I only meant to keep Samuel from hearing.”