Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (6 page)

“She don’t act much like one,” said Rolly with more candor than usual.

Did I mention that Rolly’s grammar wasn’t the best and that he didn’t spell very well? Well, he didn’t. Remember, he came into hypothetical being when I was ten. I might have been a fairly smart kid, and I’d liked to read even then, but . . . well, I was only ten, you know?

“Rolly,” I said, feeling I ought to even though I didn’t want to, “Missus Pinkerton needs a dose of comfort.”

“She needs comfort from her children, not me,” said Rolly, although I really didn’t want him to. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I had him add, “At least she has a good son,” because I thought I should.

“True. Harold is a staunch support to his poor mother,” said I, back to being Daisy Majesty again.

“Her daughter needs to take lessons from him, then,” Rolly said, once more surprising me. Gee, I didn’t recall ever being as viciously honest in a spiritualist session before. I hoped this cranky mood of mine wouldn’t last, or I’d be out of work.

Mrs. Pinkerton sobbed. “I know! I know! Oh, I don’t know what to do!”

Something occurred to me that I decided Rolly should broach with Stacy’s mother. Therefore, I had him ask, “Does the girl have an income of her own?”

“An income?” repeated Mrs. Pinkerton, blinking.

“Aye. Does the girl have an income of her own? Or does she rely on you for her money?”

“Oh, I see. She gets an allowance.”

“From you?”

“Well . . . yes, of course. I’m her . . .” Her voice trailed off. I suspect she’d been about to say she was Stacy’s mother as though that might explain everything but didn’t because she didn’t want to hear Rolly say any more bad things about her daughter. If so, she was out of luck.

“Och!” cried Rolly in triumph. “There you have the solution. Withhold her allowance unless she agrees to comply with the rules of your house. This is your house, is it not?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then there you have it,” said Rolly firmly. “It’s your house. You set the rules. Quit paying her for behaving badly. If she kicks up a lather about having her funds cut off, she can get a job and move out.”

A job. A place of her own that she had to pay for. Wow. I doubt that Stacy Kincaid had ever considered the possibility that she might actually have to earn the bread she wasted on a daily basis or pay for the room she took up on this green earth. I’m surprised I’d had Rolly voice such a revolutionary suggestion—but I was kind of proud of myself for having done so.

“A-a job?” said Mrs. Pinkerton in a quavery voice. “A place of her own?”

“Aye. A job. A job of work. Like the rest of the people in the world. Why should she be given money by you, when all she does is get herself into trouble with it? If she don’t abide by your rules, she can get a job and a flat somewhere that she pays for with money she earns.”

“But . . . but, a job? What could she do?”

“She’s not worth much, eh? Has no useful skills? Can’t sew or cook or sweep floors?”

Boy, I really had to get myself under control. Never, in all my years as a spiritualist medium, had I been so cruelly honest with a client.

Therefore, I, Daisy Majesty, said to my Rolly-self, “Rolly, Stacy was reared as the daughter of a wealthy man and woman. She doesn’t know how to do any of those things. That’s not really her fault.”

“Och. It’s as I said: she’s worthless.”

“Rolly!”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Pinkerton in a ragged whisper. “I’m afraid what Rolly is saying is the absolute truth, Daisy.”

She feared that, did she? My goodness. Would wonders never cease?

“We were too easy on Stacy. Harold was expected to do chores and help out, but I’m afraid we allowed Stacy to run a little wild.”

A little? Huh.

“ ’T’isn’t too late to change that,” said Rolly, sounding gruff but kindly. It was about time. I was beginning to despair of myself. “You ought to talk to that minister of hers. That fellow who runs the Salvation Army.”

“Um, he doesn’t really run it,” I felt compelled to say in my Daisy voice.

“Don’t matter. He probably has more influence over her than you do at this point.”

Egad. What a terrible thing to say to a fond mother!

But Mrs. Pinkerton clutched her hands to her bosom as though Rolly had revealed a miracle, although both Sam and Harold had told her the same thing not a half-hour earlier. “You really think so?”

“Aye,” said Rolly firmly. “It’s not too late. Speak with your husband about it, and take a firm stand, the two of you. In the meantime, my darling Daisy don’t know how long she has to stay in jail without being bailed out, but let her stay there. You’ve bailed her out too many times already. And be sure to talk to that minister of hers.”

A silvery tear slid down Mrs. Pinkerton’s no-longer-powdered cheeks. She’d cried all her powder off during Sam and Harold’s reign, I reckon. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “It’s so difficult to treat one’s children harshly.”

“Harshly?” Rolly gave what I fear was a rather sarcastic laugh. “She’s the one who’s been treating you harshly, from what I’ve heard over the years. It’s past time she began to behave as a dutiful daughter should. Och, if one of our boys had given us such grief, I’d have switched his backside raw.”

Mrs. Pinkerton swallowed audibly. I was kind of appalled myself. As a rule, I didn’t favor corporal punishment for children. On the other hand, we were talking about Stacy Kincaid here, and as far as I’m concerned, the only things she deserved were maybe a silver bullet or a stake through the heart.

“Oooh,” she cried wretchedly. “I wish Algie were here. He’s my strength, you know. I’m sure he’ll help me remain firm with Stacy this time.”

“If he don’t,” I had Rolly say in the voice of Doom, “you probably won’t get another chance. Your child is playing with fire as a moth is drawn to a candle flame, and she won’t be the first bright young thing to burn up as a result of her own stupidity.”

Very well. That was it. I couldn’t do this any longer, at least not that day. Poor Mrs. Pinkerton was in as feeble a state as I’d ever seen her, and I’d been the one to put her in it. Worse, I was glad of it. Perhaps because I was wallowing in grief, I wanted everyone else in the world to suffer. I don’t know, really.

“But my time here is through for today,” Rolly said hastily, before I could blurt out any more hurtful words. “Take heart, m’dear. You talk to your Algie and form a plan to deal with your daughter. You needn’t let her rule the roast any longer. This is your home, and you should be comfortable in it. You shouldn’t have to worry about a spoilt child.”

Shut up, Daisy! I commanded myself.

“Thank you for helping us today, Rolly,” I said, vowing that he’d say not another word.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pinkerton. “I . . . you’ve been honest with me, Rolly, and I appreciate it. Although . . . oh, it’s so hard!”

Rolly struggled to emerge once more, but I wouldn’t let him. Mrs. Pinkerton had never had to work a day in her life, and this post-war world we lived in was nothing like the easy-going days of yesteryear. Well, they’d been easy-going for the likes of her. We Gumms and Majestys had still had to work like the dickens for our livings. Not that I was bitter or anything.

Um . . . I think I just lied about that part. But never mind. I’d known for a long, long time that the world wasn’t fair, and that there were the haves and the have-nots populating it. The fact that I fell into the latter category wasn’t Mrs. Pinkerton’s fault, even if she was a silly woman.

“I’m afraid Rolly has gone back to the Other Side,” I said softly, hoping to make up for some of Rolly’s earlier harshness. “I hope he hasn’t upset you.”

She heaved perhaps the largest sigh I’d ever heard and said, “Well . . . yes, he did upset me. But I suppose it’s no more than I deserved to hear. He told me the truth.”

As sympathetically as I could, because I felt guilty, I said, “I’m afraid he did, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it.” Bad Daisy. “But I think he had a good idea. I’m sure your husband will help you come up with a plan for dealing with Stacy. It can’t be easy for him to have her upsetting you all the time. He loves you, after all.”

And then, as stupid as it sounds, I almost started crying myself.

However, my words seemed to buck Mrs. Pinkerton up slightly. She squared her shoulders. “Yes. Yes, Algie does love me. And I love him. And he shouldn’t have to suffer from Stacy’s behavior.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said bracingly.

And then I got out of there as fast as I could. Because I still felt rotten about having upset Mrs. Pinkerton so badly, I made a detour to the kitchen to have a chat with Aunt Vi and see if there wasn’t some tea and maybe some cookies there that might make the lady of the house feel better.

When I pushed the swinging door open Vi had her hands in a bowl of dough, punching it down with a vigor that signified to me she was taking her frustrations out on it. She turned when the door opened and frowned at me.

Pressing a hand to my heart, I said, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset her so badly.”

Vi’s expression changed to one of bewilderment. “What are you going on about, Daisy? Upset whom?”

I sank down into a kitchen chair. “Oh, dear. Missus Pinkerton called me because Stacy—”

“That horrible, awful brat!” cried Vi. “I thought maybe she’d changed her wicked ways for good, but now she’s gone and got herself arrested again, and poor Missus Pinkerton is beside herself! To think that good boys like your Billy and my Paul—” But her voice caught on a tear and she couldn’t go on.

“Oh, Vi.” I leapt from my chair, rushed over to her and threw my arms around her, flour be darned. It had never occurred to me that she might resent Stacy’s behavior for the same reason I did: Stacy was alive, and Vi’s son and my husband were dead. Irrational, I suppose, but who ever said human beings were rational?

Vi pulled herself together after about thirty seconds of that. “Oh, dear. I don’t want to get flour all over your pretty dress, Daisy.”

“Don’t worry about my dress, Vi. I don’t care about the dress. I feel the same way about Stacy that you do.”

Vi wiped her eyes on her apron, smearing flour across her face. Poor thing. She worked so hard. Not only did she cook for the Pinkertons and the wretched Stacy, but she also cooked at our house. That was fortunate for us, because neither Ma nor I were very good cooks. Oh, very well; the truth is that I am probably the worst cook in the entire world.

Then I confessed to my aunt, “I’m afraid Rolly told Missus Pinkerton some stuff she didn’t want to hear today when he visited from the netherworld.”

“Pshaw,” said my aunt, who knew as well as I did that Rolly was a figment of my imagination. She didn’t mind that, since he earned the family a good deal of money. “Well, I guess it’s time somebody told her the truth about that child of hers.”

With a heavy sigh, I said, “I hope I wasn’t too hard on her. But Stacy shouldn’t be allowed to get away with all the stuff she gets away with. And if Missus Pinkerton keeps paying her bail and stuff like that, she’ll never learn.”

“Missus P is a gentlewoman, Daisy. I don’t think they see these things as clearly as us commoners.”

With a grin, I said, “Good way to put it. Anyhow, she was pretty upset, and I thought maybe some tea and cookies might cheer her up some. I’ll be happy to take a tray in to her.”

“Never you mind about that,” said Vi, eyeing me critically. “You’re the one who needs the cookies. I swear, Daisy Majesty, you’re fading away.”

I was? I glanced down at my now-floury dress in astonishment. “I am?”

“Well, I don’t know how much weight you’ve lost since your poor Billy died, but you’re beginning to look downright scrawny.”

“I am?” Boy, that would be a change! Although I faithfully followed the fashions—nobody wants to hire a dowdy spiritualist—I’d always despaired of my curves, which simply couldn’t be hidden, even though I wore the requisite bust-flattener.

“But never mind about that. Here. Take this to Missus P. Tell her to buck up and stick to her guns.”

Vi handed me a tray, which she must have had ready before I entered the kitchen because I sure hadn’t seen her boiling any water or anything, and I took it. “Thanks, Vi.”

“Those are Swedish cream cookies. They’re full of butter, sugar and cream. Eat a few. They’ll put some meat on your bones.”

“Thanks, Vi. I sure will.”

As I carried the tray back to the drawing room, I eyed it. The Swedish cream cookies were quite pretty and flaky-looking, but the notion of eating one made me feel squeamish. Gee, maybe Vi
and the fit of my dress were both right about me losing weight. If they were, it was the only good thing to have come about after Billy’s short life ended.

Mrs. Pinkerton was grateful for the tray. She brightened when I entered the room, although she still wore a haggard, careworn expression on her face, and her eyes remained swollen and red-rimmed. I hated Stacy Kincaid in that moment. Not that I didn’t generally hate her, but to put a woman like Mrs. Pinkerton, who was kindhearted and nice even if she was a bit dim, through such troubles, went beyond what any child should inflict upon a parent.

Unclenching my teeth and swallowing the bitter words dancing on my tongue, I smiled at the forlorn mother suffering on her wildly expensive sofa. I guess it was true that money couldn’t buy happiness—although I’d just as soon be unhappy in, say, France or somewhere, than in our little bungalow on Marengo. But that’s neither here nor there.