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She wondered, hopefully, if Mr McTavish would attend. His sister was keen but her brother was clearly determined to uphold the appearance of sceptic, and not indulge the spiritual craze that was sweeping the nation.
He’d indulged his sensual desires not long before, though, which should give Lily hope.
Nevertheless, she’d not heard from him since, which was troubling.
Even more troubling was where they would meet when the time came. She’d made it clear that she spent little time at the address in St John’s Wood. It was difficult to know how to navigate discussion surrounding her lodgings, though it was also clear by the magical evening they’d indulged in together that he understood matters between them would not be straightforward on account of the obvious gaps in Lily’s history which she’d promised would be forthcoming…when the time was right.
“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a treat tonight!” Mrs Moore hurried into the hall to greet the first of her audience. Dressed in an elaborate bustle gown of black crepe with a sequin-adorned black lace bonnet over her dark hair, she was a forbidding sight. By contrast, Lily had been dressed to appear vulnerable and mysterious with her long golden hair, unbound, lightly covered with a black mantilla that cascaded over her shoulders, wearing a secondhand gown of black and purple purchased the day before.
With a final, backwards look at the festooned concealing drapery between the parlour and the passage, she headed towards the trapdoor in the scullery, daunted by tonight’s new role. By comparison, the Lambton seances felt safe. She felt authentic, talking to the old man as any loving daughter might, and it was easy to find the right words; words that brought him to tears, and words that clearly brought him comfort. All she had to do was pretend to repair the schism between herself and her own disinterested parent.
But the atmosphere tonight felt different and dangerous. She wasn’t ready to descend to the cellar, wanting to gauge her new audience. Hesitating, she decided to hide herself a few minutes longer behind the tasselled drapes, so she could watch as the room slowly filled with ticket-holders.
The audience was composed of all walks of life: working-class people in the clothes of their trade, middle-class men and women in their formal finery. Even a couple of government ministers. With a frisson of fear, Lily recognised several from her short time at Madame Chambon’s. Customers of the girls; men who had paid for Celeste’s services. Although Lily didn’t feel afraid of being recognised from those days, for she’d been such a poor physical specimen who had kept to the shadows for the most part, and she was veiled tonight, she did feel afraid of the expectations of these people here tonight.
And the expectations of Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier.
She was glad Mr McTavish was not coming, or likely to come either. She was glad she’d not entreated him, as had been her intention.
Remembering their afternoon together, her body pulsed with a deep longing and desire for his company. And for his comfort. He wasn’t at all the taciturn, judgemental gentleman she’d first thought him.
As she withdrew from her hiding place, she caught a glimpse of Gracie conversing with a fellow in a checked, cloth jacket and trousers, who’d just removed his cap and was scratching behind his ear. Gracie looked animated, and, when the fellow turned, Lily recognise Archie in the moment before Mr Montpelier took her by the arm and hustled her towards the scullery where he pointed at the trapdoor.
“There’s a man wot’s brought ’is photographic equipment so yer jest be sure yer keep that veil down, yer ’ear?” he exhorted softly. “We want the essence o’ the spirit world published in the newspapers, not some picture o’ yer that anyone can recognise.” Clearly, he did not know that Lily had been photographed with Lord Elkington and Mrs Bennet.
As he raised the lid of the trapdoor with one hand while the other lay heavy on
Lily’s arm, his tone softened. “But yer did well persuadin’ that young newspaper man ter send ’is feller ter take pictures.” For a brief moment, they locked eyes, and despite the uncharacteristic kindness of Mr Montpelier’s tone, Lily wondered if every move she made these days was watched.
Surely, though, Mr Montpelier would have indicated if he’d known of Lily’s secret tryst with Mr McTavish at the house in St John’s Wood.
Downstairs, in the chill, damp cellar, Lily shivered and tried to focus her mind on all the possibilities that might be thrown at her during her convening with the so-called spirits.
With Mrs Renquist paying a handsome fee just to hold the event, Lily felt the burden of expectations. She listened as Mrs Moore attempted to glean all she could from the widow about her husband’s disappearance for the benefit of the audience.
At least, that was how the woman had described the proposed prelude would proceed. Lily could only hear the indistinct murmuring of Mrs Moore, with intervals of silence punctuated by a gong which reverberated from rafters to cellar. It was at the third of these that Lily was to show herself, which she did, emerging amidst the fragrant smoke to the sound of gasps and applause.
With her head bowed, she listened as Mrs Moore intoned, “Tell us, communicator with those in the afterlife and those caught somewhere between the two, have you seen or heard anything of this man, Bernard Renquist, who vanished mysteriously eight weeks ago?”
While Lily’s role was to keep Mrs Renquist and a growing and interested audience returning for several weeks, Mr Montpelier and Mrs Moore had conceded that discovering the truth was unlikely.
Lily’s own brief hopes of playing investigator were of course little more than foolish child’s play. How could she, a mere woman with no means whatsoever of learning anything valuable in her limited sphere, hope to shed light on the mystery?
Nevertheless, if she could supposedly summon the spirit to the satisfaction of those in Mrs Moore’s parlour tonight, she would be assured of a roof over her head for at least another few weeks.
As she stared at her black boots peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown while Mrs Moore began chanting, her head swam with fear.
Robert was coming to London in two weeks. Mr Montpelier knew as well as Lily did the dangers of discovery and might therefore decide she was replaceable at the first opportunity.
She went over all the avenues open to her, and her heart grasped at possible salvation. The first of these was obvious.
Mr McTavish?
“Speak, communicator!” demanded Mrs Moore, throwing up her arms and swaying. “Speak to the dead! What can you tell us?”
With an effort, Lily trotted out her carefully curated words of mystery.
The audience gasped on cue.
