1 A Spirited Manor (4 page)

C
lara sat in her front sitting
room.  The mid-morning light was pale, but pleasant.  Not so dim that it
demanded the gas lights be lit, but not so bright that the room became uncomfortably
warm.  The sound of each passing carriage filled her with both excitement and
dread.  What would this Violet woman be like?  Would they be instant kindred
spirits, or would she cause Clara to regret her impetuous decision?  Clara
played with her wedding band, remembering a time when meeting strangers was
exciting and new.  She wondered how it came to be that she was so fearful of
her life, how much she sought refuge in the safety of her walls.  Strangely, it
was her home that became the most unsafe of all, with midnight visitors of the
other world variety.  And yet, if there was some wisdom, some knowledge one
gleaned on the other side, perhaps the girl was indeed a messenger sent to
Clara with words of great importance.

A carriage stopped in front of
the house.  Clara willed herself not to run to the window to catch a secret
glimpse.  She heard the front door ring and Willard's steadfast steps calmly
walking down the hall.  She heard the door open.  She adjusted her skirts and
tucked her hair nervously.

The door to her sitting room
opened and Willard announced the guest.  "Miss Violet Nero."

In walked the soon to be
daughter-in-law of Horace Oroberg.  She was a wan creature, almost more bird
than human.  Her frame was as delicate as a wren.  Her large eyes were dark and
sunken and her pale skin seemed to almost have a bluish tinge.  Her brown hair
was pulled back and hung in sausage curls.  Though her face held the age of one
close to twenty years, she stood no taller than a twelve year old girl and her
physical development seemed to have ceased at that age, too.

Clara rose.  She felt a twinge
of instant sympathy for this frail and sickly woman.  Who knew what tragedy
already struck her.  Clara held out both hands in friendship.  "Miss Nero. 
It is a pleasure."

Violet took Clara's hands in
hers and allowed Clara to lead her to the seating area.  Her voice held the
slightest touch of French, as if she held her vowels like candy upon her tongue.
 "Please, do call me Violet.  My father-in-law tells me we have such a
great deal in common.  I feel that we are to be dear friends."

Violet sat down, perching
politely upon the chair, as if frightened to take up too much space.  Clara
poured milk and sugar into the cups, then filled them both with tea.  She passed
a saucer to Violet.

"So, you are engaged to Lord
Oroberg's son?" Clara asked.

"Indeed.  Maman has been
friends with the family for a great number of years and says that I am so lucky
to have made such a match."

Clara politely sipped, unsure of
the way in which Violet spoke of her fiancé through the eyes of her mother's
advice.

"But you shall meet
Clifford this weekend!" Violet exclaimed, snapping Clara from her
thoughts.  "Please, do say you will come.  It shall be frightfully dull to
endure an entire weekend with no one to be my companion besides Maman."

"It sounds like quite a
fascinating opportunity," said Clara.  "Tell me, who all will be
joining us?"

"Well, there is Maman and
I.  Clifford and his father, whom you've already met.  Marguerite Matson, who
is quite the modern woman.  We are not terribly well acquainted, but she has
known Clifford since his university days.  I hope you will not think poorly of
her.  When her husband disappeared, she was the center of a great deal of scandal
and gossip, but Clifford assures me of her good character.  Marguerite is quite
the skeptic, though, and has insisted upon bringing a scientist named Norman Scettico
to point out the supposed error of our ways.  The medium who will be guiding us
on our journey is a man named Wesley Lowenherz.  He is known in all of the spiritual
circles as someone who is quite able to talk to anyone beyond the grave."

At the sound of Wesley's name,
Clara felt the blood drain from her face and prayed that Violet did not remark
at how remarkably pale she had become.  Horace had said it was quite a coincidence
that she sought him out at the moment she did.  She thought, too, of the coincidence
that this medium, this Wesley Lowenherz, was the spiritualist he employed.  She
had been tortured by her cowardice to speak up in that vaudeville house, and
now she had been invited to spend an entire weekend in Mr. Lowenherz's presence. 
She felt her teacup clatter on her saucer and placed it down upon the table.  "It
sounds like splendid company."

"I am sure it seems quite
odd that Horace would be so quick to invite you along, but I swear that you
shall find our merry party most pleasant."

"It does seem rather
strange to go somewhere so far away from town with people I've just become
acquainted..." Clara confessed.

Violet nodded, this time seemly
to be the one with the sympathy, which struck Clara as quite a different turn
of events.  She spoke, "Each of us has endured great tragedy.  We have
lost loved ones too soon.  Each of us wishes to speak with them, to find this
connection.  Horace is insistent that this home is a place where the veil is quite
thin.  In fact, Mr. Lowenherz was the first to suggest the location and the
company."  Violet stared into her cup, almost embarrassed to broach the
subject with Clara.  "Horace stated that you, yourself, had an experience
of a troubling kind."

Clara did not know how best to reply. 
"At the risk of sounding like quite a madwoman, I saw a strange figure in
my chambers the other night and do not know what to make of it."

Violet leaned forward. 
"And that is why you must come!  If you were seeing this figure here,
where there is almost no psychic activity at all, imagine who you might see if
you join us in this other place!  You must come!  Please, tell me that you
will."

"It could have all been
nothing more than a trick of my mind," protested Clara.

"And so you must come to
find out if it is just your mind or something more!"

"But the woman I saw was
here in this house.  Why would I go elsewhere for answers?"

"Mr. Lowenherz is the most
sought after medium in polite society.  His rates are quite beyond your means,
or even mine."

Clara did not feel it polite to
point out she had seen him just the other day in a line-up at a vaudeville
house.

Violet continued, oblivious to
Clara's hesitation.  "It is only through Horace's intervention that we
even have access to him.  It is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and you
really must come to at least see if he has answers for you." 

Clara was so close to agreeing. 
There was something about Violet which made Clara immediately trust her.  She
had such an open vulnerability to her, an innocence that seemed to ask Clara to
do the same, and a promise that whatever Clara had seen or endured, it would
not be mocked or ridiculed.  So, Clara finally dared to ask, "Tell me,
have you ever seen anything unworldly before?"

Violet was still for a moment
and then nodded.  "Yes, when I was a young woman, I thought I saw someone
in my room.  That vision has stayed with me for all these years and I wonder
what he was trying to tell me.  I have sought out answers from so many
different flim-flam men and frauds.  But this Mr. Lowenherz, I have confidence
in him.  Marguerite has sworn that I am wasting my time and energy again, and
this is why she has insisted upon bringing Mr. Scettico, but if there is even a
possibility that Mr. Lowenherz can give me answers, well... I cannot think of a
better way to spend a few days.  And if he is as big a fraud as Marguerite
warns, then at least I shall have a lovely weekend in the country with my fiancé
and friends."  She leaned forward and grasped Clara's hand.  "I do
hope that you will come, Clara, for I feel as if it was fate which brought us
together."

Clara could not cause that
hopeful face to fall, and so she found herself replying, "Of course.  Of
course I will be there as your guest and will look forward to an entertaining
weekend of new friendships and adventure."

Violet suddenly seemed alight
with joy and excitement.  She clapped her hands and declared, "Splendid! 
I shall send a carriage round for you Friday afternoon!"

Her enthusiasm was infectious,
and Clara found herself strangely looking forward to this surprise holiday.  She
felt as if saying yes to this kind invitation was a step forward.  If her
isolation was causing her late husband sadness beyond the grave, she would try
to live.  She would try her best to bring him joy once again.

T
he carriage rocked gently along
the muddy path.  A low mist hung over the boggy fields and the sky was
darkening threateningly.  Horace Oroberg's house in the north country was two
hours by rail and then another hour by carriage ride.  Despite the luxury in
which Clara traveled, she was exhausted and looked forward to arriving at her
final destination.

The horse's hooves clomped
across a long bridge over a steep bank.  Clara looked down and saw that the
river below was already high.  The storm clouds must have broken farther away
and caused the rain to gather.  From the speed of the water already, she could
see that the storm would be violent.

Far ahead, she could see the
country house.  The lights shone from the windows warmly across the cold moor. 
She wondered what a figure she would appear arriving in such a splendid place,
her in her mourning clothes as all the others gathered to reach out to dead
ones.  She thought of the assumptions that others would make about her, so sure
that it was her husband she wished to reach.  She wondered, as she stared at
the house, why she had not sought him out in the spiritual realm before. 
Perhaps it was her own skepticism of such things, of charlatans who preyed upon
the weak and grieving.  And yet, here she was.  If it had not been for her own
strange experience, she never would have ventured into such passings.  She
hoped that this was not some ill-fated ruse.  She could not think of any reason
someone might go to such effort and expense to swindle her.  Indeed, her new
home and her pension were the only wealth she had, and while comfortable for a
woman living alone, they were not sizeable enough to be attractive to a con
artist.  She knew her only defense would be to keep her wits about her and to
keep herself from falling under the spell of proceedings.

The carriage pulled up to the
house and as the driver removed her baggage, Horace's butler, Gilbert, emerged
to lend his hand as she climbed out and gather her things.

"Good to see you again,
Gilbert," she said.

"Ma'am," was all he
replied.

She walked into the home. 
Immediately, she was struck by the sheer masculinity of the decor.  She had not
thought that there might not be a Mrs. Oroberg, but now it dawned on her that
perhaps Horace's overtures of friendship might possibly tend towards a friendship
she was not entirely comfortable with, that perhaps he had invited her here as
a guest of his daughter-in-law to meet the family and have an opportunity to
know her outside the bounds of societal propriety.  She hoped that she was
jumping to wild conclusions. 

Gilbert led her through the
front hall filled with hunting trophies.  There were heads of antelope, zebras,
and buffalo hanging over every door.  He ushered her into the library where tusks
of ivory framed the fireplace and Zulu spears adorned the walls.  Skins of tigers
and leopards were scattered upon the furniture like blankets.  The foot of an
elephant served as the base for a table.  A great bear rug spread out before
the fire.  Clara thought it no wonder that Horace believed this home seemed so
connected with death.  There was death at every turn.

The door opened and a man
entered.  He was a rakish figure.  His curling brown hair was carelessly styled
in such a way that she could tell he fussed over it for hours.  He wore his
dinner coat and tie with the ease of a man used to finery.  There was a lazy
look to his eyes, a curl to his lips of insolent knowing, a swagger to his
stance that he was a man not used to hearing the word "no".  He
carried a glass of scotch and threw it back the moment he looked at her, his
eyes never leaving her face.  He strode across the room.  "Mrs. O'Hare! 
My father has told me so much about you!"

He took her hand in his and
raised it, his lips lingering on her fingers for far longer than politeness
would allow.

"I believe I have had the
pleasure of meeting your fiancé," she replied, removing her hand from him.

He took his empty glass and
decided the best place for it would be the mantle directly behind her.  But
rather than comfortably walk around, he leaned into her, so close that his body
almost touched hers.  "Pardon me," he murmured, his mouth dangerously
close.

"Oh, leave the poor widow
alone," came a voice from across the room.

Clara looked up to see who this
savior was.  It was a woman about her age.  She wore a tightly bodiced gown of
blood red, which held her figure in a perfect hourglass.  The high necked
daywear had been exchanged for the scooped neckline of the night.  It fell from
her shoulders revealing her elegant carriage and enticing bosom.  Her black hair
was large and loose, pinned up in the Gibson style that Clara had seen on the
front cover of a
Life Magazine
only a few weeks before.  Her high
chiseled cheek bones framed her shocking blue eyes, eyes that looked upon the
world with bored detachment.

"Whatever Marguerite
wishes, she gets.  Those are the rules, aren't they?" Clifford asked as he
backed away from Clara with knowing humor, as if delighting in how
uncomfortable he made her for that moment.  He leaned over and planted a kiss
upon Marguerite's cheek.  The woman appeared utterly uninterested in his
affections.

"You have a fiancé now,
Clifford, and will need to behave yourself if you hope to weasel your way into
her dead daddy's dowry."

 "Such dreadful accusations
from you, Marguerite!  How dare you insinuate such awfulness!" he replied
in mock horror.

She took a sip from her wide champagne
glass and peered at him over the rim.  "Am I wrong?"

"I should have married
you."

"Your money is not green
enough for my taste," she replied.  She held out an outstretched hand to
Clara and daintily gripped her fingers.  "You mustn't pay us the slightest
bit of attention.  Clifford and I have been school chums since he learned how
to look up a young girl's skirt.  He's all bark and, sadly, no bite."

"A pleasure to make your
acquaintance," said Clara, feeling adrift in this sea of inside jokes and
politics.

Marguerite looked upon her,
taking in her attire in such a way that Clara felt she should apologize for not
making the mark.  "Black.  I suppose you are in mourning for someone near
and dear, so near and dear you would allow yourself to be led far and away into
this lion's den of poor manners and bad taste."

"I confess, I do not know
entirely what I am getting myself into.  I was invited here by Violet..."

Marguerite rolled her eye and
flung her willowy body upon a chair.  "Oh, shy little Violet.  So anxious
for a friend to share in her harebrained adventures.  My condolences."

"Really, she seemed quite
kind..." said Clara.

"The fact you are here is a
mark against her 'kindness'," stated Marguerite.

 "Now, don't go scaring off
such pleasant company," said Clifford.  He touched Clara's chin and tilted
her head towards the fire to get a better look at her features.  "Fine
company and fine to look at, too."

"Clifford, you had better
find yourself on the other side of the room before Violet and that mother of
hers get here."

He sighed.  "They are all
the way on the other end of the house preparing the room with the medium."

"Oh, that's why I came in. 
They are done and on their way."

Clifford ran over to the other
side of the library and planted himself at the farthest window.

"Coward," Marguerite
laughed, downing her drink.

At that moment, the sound of
voices filled the hallway.  Clara was unsure whether to sit or stand, to go
towards the door or remain where she was.  The entire evening had her flustered
and everything was sixes and sevens.

The door opened and in came
Horace, with Violet's delicate hand upon his massive forearm.  Behind them came
a woman that Clara could only suppose was Violet's mother.  She had darker hair
than her daughter, but shared the same large eyes which looked almost
permanently startled.  Her hair was gathered upon her head in a large, loosely
held bun.  Her wasp-like waist was cinched into an hourglass, which took some
doing for this woman was almost skeletal with skin hanging loosely from her
bones.  Her face was pinched, as if the smell of sour milk lurked beneath her
nose.  She was escorted by a man with mutton chop sideburns and a humorless,
shrew-like face.

But it was not this couple who
captured Clara's attention.  No, it was the man who followed them behind.  As
he entered, it felt as if all the air had been taken from the room.  She had
seen him once before, upon that stage in that vaudeville house, but that did
not prepare her for what it was like standing next to him in the flesh.  Clara
felt the blood rush to her face and chest as a strange heat washed through her
body.

Off the stage and out of the
greasepaint, he was more dashing than she ever thought possible.  If anything,
the stage had made him seem smaller and less than his own reality.  He was
still tall and slim with broad shoulders, square jawed and heavy browed.  He still
had that beautiful head of wavy, auburn hair that caught the light so magically. 
But his skin was so clear, she could tell he did not partake of a single drop
of liquor.  There was a rarified power in his movement and a gentlemanly way in
which he carried himself.  A soulfulness to his brown, dark eyes.  They were soft
and warm, as if incapable of an angry glance.  They fixed upon Clara and she
was unable to break from their gaze.  It was as if the entire world ceased to
exist beyond the two of them.  The only other time she had ever felt this way
was the first time she saw Thomas.

Wesley stepped closer and she
could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.  Clara was aware of someone talking,
of introducing people to her, but it wasn't until Horace said, “And may I
introduce Wesley Lowenherz?” that she heard anything.

Wesley reached for her hand,
which she gave gladly.  His touch was electric, and the sensation of his lips
upon the back of her hand was as intimate as if he had brushed across her mouth
instead.

"My deepest condolences on
your loss," he said.

Those words brought Clara back
into the room and broke the spell.  She was aware once more of her clothes of
mourning, of the figure of a grieving widow she cut, and of how, until this
very moment, she thought she would spend the rest of her life living as such. 
She nodded, choking down the urge to correct him, to tell him that for the
first time in a long time, things might not always be as they seemed.

Instead, she merely said,
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Horace introduced her to the
others.  Hilda Nero, Violet's mother, and Norman Scettico, the scientist that
Violet had spoken to her about.  But Clara barely paid attention.  Instead, she
was entranced by this Mr. Lowenherz, following him with her eyes as he sat down
next to Marguerite, as he spoke with Violet, as he greeted Clifford.  Clara
wanted only to be at his side.

The conversation was interrupted
by the ringing of the dinner gong.

Horace rose to his feet and
said, "If you all would follow me into the dining room, I believe dinner
is now served."

Gilbert opened the double doors
between the sitting room and the dining room.  An elegant table was laid with
service for five courses.  Horace took the head of the table with his son
taking the other end.  Clara felt as if her heart might stop as she realized
she was seated across from Mr. Lowenherz.

After the drinks were poured,
Horace lifted his glass and declared, "To the life beyond!"

They all lifted their glasses in
agreement.  Or almost all.

Norman Scettico placed his glass
back onto the table without joining in the toast.  "I hope that we shall
all keep an open mind so that we might discern between the truths and fictions
that we see tonight."

Horace gave him a laugh. 
"I am sure that your cunning eye will pierce through any charlatan's
trick, but since we have here as our guest one of the greatest mediums society
has ever known, I am sure that you can sit back to enjoy the evening, safe in
the knowledge that there is nothing more to discern, for the truth has already
revealed itself."

The table politely tittered, but
Norman gave a cold glare as he bit his tongue and kept from answering back. 
His sip from his wine glass was large.

As the soup was brought out and
served, Mr. Lowenherz turned to Clara, casually inquiring, "I am
acquainted with the history of our other guests, Mrs. O'Hare, but do not know
what brings you to our circle tonight."

She placed down her spoon,
feeling the eyes of the entire table upon her.  She felt her mouth go dry and
prayed that she not seem a fool before them.  "I had a midnight visitor
the other day who led me to Horace... I believe she is one of the other world. 
Upon calling on Horace, it seemed natural that I should join your merry group
this weekend to see if perhaps some answers might be gleaned as to who she is
and why she is in such distress."

Mr. Lowenherz looked at Clara
with even greater interest, which she found she did not object to in the least. 
"Truly?  I would have guessed from your attire you would have wished to be
reunited with a loved one recently passed."

Clara swallowed, strangely not
wanting to dissuade his attentions, but knowing she must acknowledge his
observation.  "I am sure that we all might wish to speak again to those
who have gone before us, but that is not what brought me here tonight."

"May I ask who it was who
left?"

"You are the medium. 
Perhaps you should tell me," Clara laughed, not sure if she wanted to hear
Thomas's words spoken by this man. 

"Do you believe in an
afterlife, Mrs. O'Hare?" he asked.

She found herself unable to
answer at first, fearful that she might lose her composure.  Finally she
managed to say, "I hope there is.  I hope that we shall all be reunited with
those we hold dear.  This other figure who appeared to me seemed to make me
think that there is life beyond.  But I no longer feel as though I understand
what it looks like or what it means.  Perhaps it is the answers to that very
question which causes me to come here today."