Conjurer (19 page)

“Marta,”
he murmurs again.
“Bimba mia
—”

“My baby girl!” Emily fumes while her husband simultaneously rises to his feet.

“I won't have you insulting Miss Beale—”

“Marta … Maria
…” Paladino continues as if his two hosts hadn't spoken. “…
Bimba mia … Ragazzina mia
…” Then his serene demeanor vanishes, and he gapes at Martha and begins weeping as unabashedly as a child. “Dead,” he says in halting English. “You will dead.”

“Listen to Him”

D
EAD. YOU WILL DEAD
.

After twelve full hours, the warning still echoes in Martha's brain. What did the necromancer mean? And what of the dual names of
Marta
and
Maria?
Was there significance in the choice? Or was it simply an imperfect translation?

“You will dead.” Martha repeats the ominous words aloud, then walks to her escritoire, thinking to detail the previous evening's peculiar events in her journal, but no sooner has she seated herself, taken up the pen, and dipped the nib in ink than she grows bored with the effort. Or perhaps, she realizes, sharing thoughts with an inanimate page is too meaningless a course to consider.
Why not bare my soul to the silent walls or have discourse with the bric-a-brac that lines the mantel? Why not talk to Father's hunting dogs instead? At least they might shake their shaggy necks as if they understood
.

She sighs in frustration, stares at the journal's open pages, then slaps the book shut.
What wondrous confidences have I ever been capable of exposing?
she wonders.
I, who have done nothing in my twenty-six years of living?
She drops the pen. For a fraction of a moment, she considers snapping it in two or hurling it away, and she glares at the thing lying on her desktop as if it were the cause of her discontent.

“Oh,” Martha sighs again, and the small sound is but a fragment of a larger one that wells up in her chest, propelling her away from the writing desk to pace around and around her bedroom while her brain leaves off all considerations of the Durands' party or Eusapio Paladino or his now quite irrelevant admonitions.

Where on earth is my father?
her brain demands.
Is he drowned and gone forever as Owen Simms insists; or, as bizarre as it sounds, has he chosen to escape his public persona and take himself off into hiding as Thomas Kelman suggests? And, if the latter is true, then why? Why? What would drive him to such an act? And what did he imagine the consequences of such a decision would be on me?

She sighs anew. The sound is now full of anger, and her footsteps marching over the carpeted and uncarpeted floor match the irate tone.
On me?
her thoughts repeat.
On me? What did he think would become of me whose entire existence has been at his behest?

A hundred pictures from her childhood whirl into her head until she settles upon one single scene: her mother, a lady she hardly knew, languishing in a high and silent bed that needed a footstool to attain its surface. Around it flit shadowy people who warn the little girl not to make noise or pull the waxen fingers that rest upon the medicinal-smelling sheets.
Who were the other people in that room?
Martha wonders now.
A sister to my mother? A brother? Siblings of my father who came to share in his grief? Were there grandparents at the scene? Or cousins? Even distant ones? Were there friends?

But nowhere there or in the years that followed can Martha clearly picture any face but her father's—and eventually that of Owen Simms.

This time she does pick up the pen, and then hurls it in great passion toward the floor. Her aim is wayward, though, and the steel point doesn't drop but instead races arrow-like and swift across the room, where it collides with a Staffordshire shepherdess sitting on the mantel. The sudden blow proves fatal; the shepherdess doesn't simply crack in pieces, she explodes, sending a gritty cloud of powdered porcelain over her companion figurines.

Martha marks the destruction; her mouth falls open in astonishment that her hand could wield such power, but no sooner does she begin moving toward the ruined object than Owen Simms knocks at her door, and then opens it and enters without waiting for a reply.

He notes the destroyed shepherdess at once. “Oh, my dear Martha,” he says with the deepest and most heartfelt concern. “Oh, my dear girl.”

Words elude Martha. She simply stares at Owen Simms; in all the years he's spent in her father's house, she's never before seen him display such strong emotion.

“We must put an end to this torture. Indeed we must. This rumor that Mr. Kelman has been spreading is too much for your fragile nature.” He walks to Martha's side. In his hand is a sheet of letter paper, which he places in her fingers. “A note was just delivered to the house. I took the liberty of opening it, as I would all your father's correspondence.”

She pays no heed to the letter. “But couldn't it be possible that what Mr. Kelman says is true, Mr. Simms, and that Father still lives?”

“Oh, Martha, what good is this sad conjecture? What sort of odious thoughts has Kelman insinuated into your brain? That your father has crept away like a thief, that he's dodging about in the dark under an assumed name: Is that what you think?”

Martha has no reply, and so Owen Simms shakes his worried head. “If your father had some private motive for spiriting himself away—and I assure you that I, who have worked closely at his side, know of none—then would he not understand how terribly damaging the act would be to your psyche? Come, Martha; you know he would. Has he not always put your well-being above all others'?”

Martha nods, but hesitantly.

“You have only to look about you, my dear! This handsome room, handsome clothing, porcelain statuettes at which you may aim your miniature arrows.” Simms laughs lightly, but the sound is full of empathy and forbearance. “Your father has always provided you with the best that money could afford.”

Martha finally finds her voice, but all she can think to say is “That's true, Mr. Simms.”

“Then why would he deliberately cause you harm by abandoning you? I realize you would dearly love to have your papa still alive, but wishing something and having it declared as fact are two very different things …” Simms hesitates again, then seems to make some private decision.

“Martha, you've been informed that a man—or men—resembling your father have been seen at such and such a location. Quite naturally, you desire additional information. Should you press for further details, however, I fear you'll be told that gold coins must cross certain palms if your wishes are to be met … Now, let us say that you agree and willingly share of your wealth. I assure you that you will learn nothing definitive.”

“Oh …” Martha murmurs.

“Such horrible frauds are committed continually, my dear. Why, just last year—”

“But Mr. Kelman must also be aware of those cruel practices, Mr. Simms.”

“And that is precisely why I question his motives in coming to you with these spurious claims. Now, come, regard the correspondence I brought you. It's from the Roseggers, requesting your presence at tea this afternoon. Mrs. Rosegger mentions that she and her husband enjoyed meeting you last evening at the Durands' home. In the circumstances, however, I think it best if I respond and say that you are indisposed.”

“No!” Martha's reply is more forceful than she intended. “I'll act on my own behalf, Mr. Simms.” She glances at the sheet of paper in her hand. “Yes, I will go.”

“Then I'll accompany you.”

“No!”

“Martha, my dear. You must trust me to know what is best for you. Just as you trusted your dear father.”

Tea, then. Tea at the Rosegger home on Chestnut Street. Martha and Owen Simms are admitted into the drawing room by a footman who then departs to seek his master and mistress. Martha doesn't speak; instead, she withdraws into herself and wonders if her father's confidential secretary must always accompany her in future. She ardently wishes she hadn't displayed such a dearth of self-control. It's certainly not how Emily Durand would behave: breaking statuary and exposing every fickle emotion that entered her heart. Pondering these reproaches, Martha feels the room begin to constrict; the suites of chairs, the statuary and paintings grow too cramped, the air too full of wood smoke and the heavy scents of pomander and bergamot. When the Roseggers enter the room, she almost rushes at them in relief.

The husband, as she remembers from the previous evening, is a handsome man with an uncompromising stride and equally martial posture. He also has a predatory air that she didn't detect at the Durands' party. When he looks at her, which he does often and intently, she feels her skin begin to prickle in discomfort.

Mrs. Rosegger, as was the case during their previous meeting, doesn't shine. Martha recalls the gossip Emily shared when the ladies withdrew to an upstairs sitting room prior to the conjuring: Mrs. Rosegger's father had been a successful grocer, the owner of several shops and the employer of many men, and he'd doted upon his daughter, raising her above his two sons—or so Emily had stated in a
sotto voce
tone—and at his death she'd inherited his entire estate, which was almost immediately transferred to the man who'd been her suitor and quickly became her husband, and eventually a person as affluent and influential as Lemuel Beale.

“Rosegger married her for the father's money, of course,” Emily Durand had murmured with a wicked laugh. “Why else would a man on the rise ally himself with a woman whose parent had been a mere merchant? At least those were the rumors … The others concerned the cause of the father's demise. He was said to have unwittingly consumed a tainted piece of fish, but I ask you, if you were a grocer, wouldn't you be able to detect good from bad?” Martha remembers Emily's arch smile as she uttered these words, as well as the whispered assents of the other ladies who'd joined their small group.

“So pleasant to see you again, Miss Beale,” Rosegger himself now states. “And you also, Mr. Simms, an equally pleasant surprise.” It's the husband rather than the wife who takes the lead, and he gestures formally toward two chairs for his guests while Mrs. Rosegger hurriedly assumes her place at the tea table and begins focusing her full concentration on her hostess tasks. “I trust you were not overburdened by that charlatan's quackery last night, Miss Beale,” he continues.

Martha takes the proffered cup of tea as she forms a response. She notes that Mrs. Rosegger never once looks at her face although Martha tries to give her a smile of gratitude. “It was … odd, sir. In truth, I cannot say I was immune to
Signor
Paladino's remarks, however—”

Rosegger interrupts with a brief, sardonic laugh. “There's no such thing as clairvoyance or second sight, Miss Beale. I'm sure your father's estimable secretary has already assured you of that fact. Why, John Durand told me later last evening that an equally unpleasant spectacle occurred at a previous conjuring. The fellow pretended to see a dead child with its tongue cut out.”

“Oh!” The sound of protest that issues from Mrs. Rosegger is over almost before it begins.

“My wife is a delicate creature,” her husband announces flatly before returning his potent gaze to Martha. “Such a preposterous occurrence cannot be, of course, Miss Beale, but we must remember that this purported necromancer makes his living as a performer, and that his public audiences are generally of the most ill-informed kind. Naturally, they desire spectacle and melodrama, and he's obviously adept at providing what they want.”

Martha waits, expecting either wife or husband to say more, but when neither speaks she sits straighter in her chair, urging herself to ask the questions foremost in her mind. “Mr. Simms tells me you know my father, Mr. Rosegger.”

“The entire city knows of your father, Miss Beale.”

Martha remains silent, thinking her host will continue, but he does not; instead, he sips his tea, eats a piece of seed cake, and carefully crosses his legs. She is beginning to wonder why she was invited when suddenly Mrs. Rosegger hurtles into a rapid and peculiar conversation:

“An unskilled laborer earns at most sixty pennies a day, Miss Beale, did you know that? When that person can find work, that is. The cheapest of lodgings is a single room shared with a number of other people and costing an exorbitant twelve cents daily—”

“Miss Beale isn't interested in life among the derelict of our city.”

“Oh, but I am!” Martha protests, although it's really for her hostess's sake that she makes this boastful claim.

“A meal of scraps costs a penny,” Mrs. Rosegger continues in her skittish rush.

“So does a glass of rum,” her husband interjects with some brutality, “and I'm told the rum is often substituted for food. Let's have no more of this, Mrs. Rosegger. We'll have our guest and her guardian running for the door.” He turns his attention to Martha. “My wife, as I indicated, has a delicate heart. As you must have heard, she was raised by a man who gave employment to many. Some were deserving; some were not. I fear his daughter inherited his natural kindliness, which makes it difficult for her to detect the good from the bad.”

Throughout this little speech, Rosegger's wife scarcely moves, while Martha inadvertently recalls Emily's innuendo concerning the father's demise.
Good fish from bad
, Martha thinks, then pushes away the unpleasant suggestion, stating a conciliatory “I suppose, sir, that our purpose on this earth is to discover the virtue in
all
people—even those whom society considers wicked or corrupt.”

“Prettily said, Miss Beale,” Rosegger states, while his wife's response is a small catch of her breath that almost sounds like a sob. She covers her mouth as though she'd hiccoughed only, then pastes on a watery smile as she turns to Martha.