Wild Talent (16 page)

May 26

For some days now I have been unwell. My head throbs, my stomach churns, and I feel so dizzy at times that the room seems to spin round. Meanwhile, word has spread of Madame Rulenska's latest psychic feats, and we are now conducting séances as often as twice a day. I have always felt a little weak and disoriented after my performances, so that may be the cause of my unease. Yesterday before the séance I was drinking tea and chatting with our guests, hoping to glean some useful scraps of information for Madame Rulenska. While Mrs. Jones maundered on about her gallstones, and I nodded and smiled with pretended fascination, I came over so dizzy that my teacup slipped from my hand, and I all but fainted dead away. Madame Rulenska was alarmed enough to excuse me from my duties for the rest of the day.

Yesterday evening kind Mr. Dodds sat with me in the front parlour while I rested on the sofa, and he told me about the history of Clerkenwell. He is an excellent storyteller, and I found it all quite interesting.

I am glad I did not live in Clerkenwell in earlier times.

“In the bad old days,” says Mr. Dodds, “before the slums were cleared and the new roads built, it was the poorest and most dangerous part of London, the favourite haunt of pickpockets, thieves, murderers, and women of ill repute. But Miss Guthrie, what an abundance of history in these ancient streets! When you are better, I will show you the relics of the church of Saint John of Jerusalem, where the Knights Templar had their priory. And the house of the alchemist John Dee. Nowadays, Clerkenwell may be inhabited by watch and clockmakers and the occasional anarchist, but for centuries it was the refuge of outcasts, radicals and revolutionaries.”

“And your book, Mr. Dodds? When do you think will it be published?” For in my recent experience, the result of all this research would be a tome as weighty as
The Secret
Doctrine,
though, one would hope, more interesting to read.

“Published?” said Mr. Dodds. “Really, I had not thought of that. That would cost a great deal of money, would it not? The fun of all this, you see, is the investigation, the discovery.”

Those could as easily have been Alexandra's words, or Tom's. Those two, I thought, would understand Mr. Rufus Dodds better than I ever could.

But the talk of books made me think of childhood hours I spent exploring the crowded shelves of my father's library, and my own long-ago dreams to become a writer. I could not have imagined, then, that my own life would take stranger turns than in any novel.

May 27

Today a red, oozing rash has come out on my hands. Though there is much I wish to write, it is difficult to hold a pen. In any event, my mind is in turmoil, after reading the letter that came in the morning's post.

The Wethers,
Fyfield Village, Wilts

My dearest Jeannie,
I hope you will forgive me for not writing sooner, but I have just recently returned from three months in East Africa with a zoological expedition. Yesterday I went round cap in hand to 17 Lansdowne Road to explain my lengthy absence, but to my great disappointment, I was told you had decamped. I have prevailed upon the Countess to give me your new address, and with your permission, I would like to call upon you, when next I am in London. I have much to tell you of my African adventures, and in return, you can tell me why you have abandoned leafy Holland Park for the drear wastes of Clerkenwell.

In the meantime, in case you have not heard, there is much afoot at Lansdowne Road. First off, it seems that rumours of Madame Blavatsky's imminent demise were much exaggerated. The indomitable HPB, rebounding from the very edge of the abyss, is recovered in both health and spirit. Her new friend Mrs. Annie Besant appears to have played a part in this. Have you had a chance to meet this paragon? She is a formidable feminist, a leader of strikes and organizer of unions, and HPB seems quite besotted with her. With my own astonished ears I heard her address Mrs. Besant as “my sweet Mango”, and “my dove-eyed one.” As you have guessed, I am endlessly fascinated by Madame Blavatsky's exploits. I suspect you are as fond of her as I am myself, and will be pleased to know that against all odds she is alive and well.

Still, what I am really writing to ask, Jeannie Guthrie, is when will it be convenient for me to call?

Yours, as ever,
Tom

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

May 28

I
have read and re-read Tom's letter, and have slipped it between the pages of my journal, where I will see it each time I take up my pen to write. What a weight has been lifted from my heart! Surely he must understand what I am, and what I do — and yet he is able to forgive me, and I am still his dearest Jeannie.

But nothing escapes Madame Rulenska's inquiring eye. “Someone sent you a letter, I see. Was it the lover you came to London to escape?”

I hated myself for blushing. “You know very well I have no lover.”

“So you say.”

“And in any case, what makes you think it came from a man?”

She gave me a knowing smile. What a thoroughly disagreeable woman she is! “I have no trouble recognizing an envelope addressed in a gentleman's hand.”

“You had no business to look at it all,” I retorted. “But if you must know, it
is
a letter from a gentleman friend.”

Her smile had turned into a smirk. “And what do you imagine a gentleman wants with you? A girl of no family, no place in society — who must use her wits to earn her keep? Mark my words, a gentleman only wants one thing from a girl like you, and you may be sure it isn't marriage.”

“But he is not like that . . . ”

“Don't be absurd. He is a man, is he not? And by the look of that envelope, one born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Make no mistake, they are all like that. And more to the point — who would wish to marry a girl possessed of unnatural talents — a freak of nature?”

I could feel my face flush with anger and indignation, but I knew I must not give her an excuse to dismiss me. As I fled towards my room I passed Mr. Dodds on the stairs, and he gave me a sharp look, saying, “My dear Miss Guthrie, what is wrong?”

“Why, nothing is wrong,” I said, and made to slip past him.

“Then my dear child, why the look of one who has had the worst news in the world?”

And with that, a great lump rose in my throat; tears spilled over and rolled down my cheeks.

Mr. Dodds held out his handkerchief. “Come downstairs, you must tell me what is wrong, and if I can do anything to make it better.”

“Now then,” he said, as he sat me down on the parlour sofa and offered me a clean handkerchief. As I wiped my damp face I'm sure he noticed the state of my hands, for he gave me a troubled look. Embarrassed, I hid them in my lap.

“An acquaintance has written, and wishes to call on me,” I said.

“And that is a cause for despair? There must be more to the story than that.”

Wretchedly, I nodded. “Madame Rulenska says his intentions must be dishonourable.”

“Well, my dear child, she would say that. Her business has flourished since you arrived. She would say anything in order to keep you here. But tell me, this young man of yours, is he proposing marriage? Or perhaps”, he hesitated, “as Madame R. suggests, some other arrangement?”

“Certainly not. He is a friend, nothing more.”

“And that is why you are weeping? My dear, I find all this dreadfully confusing.”

“Because —M adame Rulenska is right, I am not fit to be his friend, still less to marry him. I have done a terrible thing, and may one day have to pay for it.”

“You? My dear, I cannot imagine you doing anything very terrible.”

And then —I cannot explain why I spoke as I did, only that Mr. Dodds is a kind old gentleman who wishes me nothing but good, and I am tired, and ill, and confused in my mind, and needed desperately to share the secret that weighs so heavily on my spirit. In any event, like water over a dam the truth spilled out — the truth I had not revealed to anyone, not even to Alexandra. In a headlong rush of words I spoke of what George had wished to do to me, and what I, in my fear and anger, had done to George. When I had finished, Mr. Dodds said quietly, “My dear, it seems clear that you inflicted a wound upon this fellow, which by the sound of it he richly deserved. But murder? Surely you have no reason to think that he is dead.”

“But he could be. I have no way of knowing. There was a great deal of blood.”

“But why assume the worst? That's the difficulty with not knowing — why I have never been fond of secrets. What people imagine can be far more shocking than the truth.” I saw that sadness had crept into his eyes, and I guessed he was thinking of other secrets than the one I had just shared with him.

“But you must promise me, Mr. Dodds, you will not tell . . . ”

“Of course I will not tell. Your secret is as safe with me, as if I heard your confession.”

Which I suppose, in a way, he had. And foolish as it might have been, to reveal so much, I feel a little better for it.

What harm can there be in seeing Tom, when it would bring me so much pleasure? Madame Rulenska is I think a sad, embittered woman, who sees the worst in everyone. If she knew Tom, she would not say such things about him. He has always treated me as he would treat any friend and equal. And that is the true mark of a gentleman, my father always said: his manners are as good whether he speaks to the squire of the manor, or a shopkeeper, or a stable boy, or the chimney sweep.

I will send Tom a letter straight away, and say that he may call on me whenever he wishes, he need only write to let me know the day.

I hope, though, that when he comes I am in better health. This afternoon when Millie brought my tea, she said, “Why Miss, whatever have you done to your poor hands?”

“I don't know,” I said. Millie took my right hand gently by the wrist and turned it palm-up, where the redness and oozing was at its worst. “'Pon my word, Miss, that's how my hands look after the spring cleaning. Have you been washing with carbolic?”

I shook my head. The only soap that I use is a soft rose-scented one that Countess Constance gave me.

“Well, I think you should have them seen to. Meantime, I have some lotion you can try.”

Millie's lotion has helped a little, I think, enough that I was able to write to Tom, and make this entry in my journal. I thought for a long while about how I should address Tom, for I should not like him to think me too bold, but he has written “My dearest,” and so I have gathered my courage, and (with what joy!) I have written, “My dearest Tom,” and signed it “Your Jeannie.”

But now there is a wretched headache behind my eyes, and all I wish to do is to sleep.

May 29

I am still tired and light-headed this evening. Madame Rulenska is thoroughly out of sorts, because she has had to conduct the afternoon séance without my help. I'd slept most of the morning, half-waking once when I thought I heard someone come into my room, but most likely that was Millie, who, bless her kind heart, is quite concerned about my health.

Just now I asked Millie if she would post my reply to Tom's letter, for I do not feel well enough to venture out.

“Not to worry, Miss,” she said. “I saw it on the table, and I'll make sure it is sent.”

And so tomorrow Tom will have my answer, and very soon, I hope, he will find his way to me in Clerkenwell.

Paris. 20
mai
Chère
Jeanne.

I feel I should apologize for my last letter, which, I realize now, was as self-absorbed as it was doleful. I should instead have written to you of my encounters with the extraordinary M. Josephin Péladan and his followers, a group as entertaining as they are grotesque.

Have I yet mentioned M. Péladan? He is a true
extravagant
, who dresses in priestly robes and wears his bushy black hair and beard in the style of the ancient Assyrians. He plans to revive the mediaeval Order of the Rose-Cross of the Temple and the Grail, and wishes to be known as “Sâr Mérodak”. (Sâr being a title of the Assyrian and Chaldean mages, and Mérodak a name for the planet Jupiter.) His Order, he says, will be a mystic fraternity bringing together the most enlightened artists, writers, musicians and thinkers. In the meantime he has written an extraordinary book called
How to Become a Fairy —
a feat which his female devotees are trying very hard to accomplish.

I was invited to tea at the home of one of his disciples, a lady of substantial weight and girth. I observed that she was tip-toeing about the room in a most peculiar fashion, lifting each foot high and then slowly setting it down. She must have sensed my curiosity, for she smiled and explained, “I am following the advice in the Sâr's book, and learning to become a fairy. One must practice walking with excessive lightness — with no more weight than a butterfly alighting on a flower. Thus the body, freed from gravity, is able to float on air.”