Chapter 12

twelve

“ T ell me again, which one is Flossie, and which is Regina?” Trudy asked as she, Lucy, and Poppy followed Daisy through the lobby, past a frowning Mr. Beeks, and out onto the front porch.

They’d been tasked with taking Constance Bostwick’s beloved long-haired dachshunds out for a stroll, yet never before had Trudy encountered two less enthusiastic pets. In fact, Lucy was carrying one while Daisy carried the other. Partly because their long bodies had difficulty negotiating the long staircase, but also because of—as Daisy put it—their sheer, unmitigated laziness.

“This one is Flossie,” Daisy answered, indicating the one in her arms. “They’ll perk up a bit when we get to the grass.”

“Good,” responded Lucy, “because this one is heavier than she looks.” The dog peered up at her as she spoke and offered a slow, tentative lick on her chin, making Poppy sigh.

“I wish you would’ve let me bring Sir Chester along,” Poppy said wistfully. “I think he would’ve enjoyed an outing on such a splendiferous day.”

“They would’ve fought like cats and dogs,” Trudy teased. “And then none of us would’ve enjoyed our day.”

“Excuse me? Are you… Dr. Hart?”

Trudy turned to see a woman with blood-shot eyes and a rather frazzled expression on her otherwise lovely face. She looked to be around thirty-years old, or so, and was dressed in the height of fashion despite her rather messy hair.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Hart. May I help you?”

“Land sakes, I hope so! Might I speak with you privately?”

Trudy waved the others on, saying she’d meet them on the lawn, and walked with the woman to a quiet alcove near one end of the lobby.

“What’s troubling you,” she asked as they sat down on a cushioned bench.

“My husband is troubling me. Well, not him, directly, but he has trouble and that’s what’s troubling me.” She glanced around to make sure no one was near and lowered her voice. “He has not been able to…”

The woman paused and Trudy knew this conversation could go in one of several different directions.

“Evacuate his bowls,” the woman said at last, and Trudy wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or disappointed.

“He’s so miserable neither one of us can sleep,” the woman continued. “Dr. Prescott told him to take castor oil, but my husband refuses to take castor oil because it gives him a rash and makes it hard for him to breathe. Dr. Prescott said that was just silly and that a grown man should be able to take his medicine without complaint, but my husband said if he had to choose between being able to…to defecate or being able to breathe, he’d choose breathing, but heavens to Betsy, I’m at my wit’s end! Then I remembered seeing you taking care of Mr. Bostwick after he fell from that bicycle, and I thought, there’s a woman who knows how to get things accomplished.” The woman reached over and clasped Trudy’s hand.” So, Dr. Hart, do you think you can help my husband… well… expel his excrement?”

All of this was delivered in a single breath, and Trudy paused a moment to see if the woman might add something more, although her description of the issue had been most thorough.

“I’m sorry to hear about his discomfort, Mrs…?”

“Oh, good heavens. Where are my manners? I’m Mrs. Dunlap. Mrs. Grover Dunlap and my husband is, well, obviously, Mr. Grover Dunlap. Please forgive me for interrupting your sojourn outside but we are both desperate.”

Trudy smiled. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Dunlap, and believe I might be able to help husband. Let me get a piece of paper and write down some instructions.”

Trudy walked over to the registration desk where Mr. Beeks begrudgingly handed over a single sheet of paper and the stub of a pencil after making her wait an interminable five minutes. He had clearly not forgiven her for the disturbance they’d caused on the day of their arrival, but nothing could be done about that now. She moved to the edge of the desk, jotted down a list of ingredients, and returned the pencil nub to the hotel manager.

“Thank you, Mr. Beeks.”

She smiled brightly.

He did not.

“Here you are, Mrs. Dunlap,” she said, returning to the bench. “Have the kitchen brew a tea with these items. Let it steep for about fifteen minutes before your husband drinks it.”

Mrs. Dunlap looked down at the list now in her hands. “Milkweed, bloodroot, fennel, and cinnamon? That’s it?”

“He might also eat some figs or an apple, but the tea should do the trick.”

“But that’s so simple. Why didn’t Dr. Prescott suggest it?”

Trudy had many theories on that but disparaging another doctor would serve no purpose here.

“You’d have to ask Dr. Prescott, but in the meantime, I suggest your husband drink at least two cups of the tea this afternoon and if he doesn’t have results by tomorrow morning, send me a note and I’ll come to see him.”

“Milkweed, bloodroot, fennel, and cinnamon?” Mrs. Dunlap repeated, rising from the seat.

“Yes,” Trudy said.

“Apples and figs?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Dunlap pushed an errant strand of hair away from her face. “Thank you, Dr. Hart. You’re a lifesaver. When my husband is feeling better, you must join us for dinner.”

“I’d like that. Thank you, Mrs. Dunlap.”

Trudy chuckled to herself as the woman rushed off toward the hotel kitchens. A lifesaver? Not exactly in these circumstances but she appreciated the compliment nonetheless, and with a lilt in her step, she headed toward the lawn to find Daisy and her sisters.

Unfortunately, it took some time to reach them since she encountered Aunt Breezy on the porch who sought to interrogate Trudy about why in heaven’s name didn’t she have her parasol. Or her gloves. Or a hat.

Trudy could have journeyed back to her room, gathered those items, and returned to the porch in less time than it took for her aunt to sufficiently reprimand her for what Breezy stated was an appalling lack of gentility and an utter absence of refinement. Eventually, though, Breezy’s interest was pulled elsewhere and Trudy finally made it to the lawn.

“There you are,” Lucy called out, waving her over.

She and Daisy were sitting on a plaid blanket with another woman Trudy didn’t recognize while Poppy and the dogs scampered about happily. “What took so long?” her sister asked.

“A simple medical question. And Aunt Breezy,” Trudy answered, then she smiled at the newcomer and said, “Hello.”

Daisy quickly proffered introductions. “Trudy, this is Miss Greta Watson. Miss Watson, this is Dr. Trudy Hart.”

Trudy leaned over to shake the woman’s hand while thinking, “Greta Watson… Greta Watson… Why does that name sound familiar?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hart,” she said. “I’ve been hearing wonderful things about you.”

Miss Watson was, by Trudy’s estimation, on the far side of sixty with dark, deep-set eyes and a bright, friendly smile. Her loose-fitting, emerald green, gown suggested she was a proponent of the Aesthetic Dress Movement, and while Trudy fully supported their mission of influencing fashion trends toward more movement-friendly clothing for women, she silently acknowledged that Miss Watson’s dress bore a striking resemblance to a medieval tunic and seemed very out-of-place at a summer resort such as this.

“You’ve heard wonderful things about me?” Trudy responded as she sank down onto the blanket. “I’m glad to know these girls haven’t been revealing all my imperfections.”

“Oh, I haven’t been hearing it from them,” Miss Watson said with a giggle, gesturing toward Lucy and Daisy. “I’ve been hearing it from them.” She pointed to the sky… and Trudy recalled where she’d heard the name before. Greta Watson was one of the psychic mediums Mr. Plank had invited to the hotel.

“Miss Watson has been telling Lucy and I all about our futures,” Daisy said, smiling over at Trudy as if to note her reaction, while Lucy suddenly looked down at the dandelion crown she’d been making. Probably because she knew Trudy’s thoughts on fortune tellers.

“But the future is always changing, isn’t it?” Trudy asked, quasi-innocently. “We turn left instead of right, and everything shifts in a new direction. Isn’t that the way it works?”

“Sometimes,” Miss Watson answered, her smile remaining warm. “Some things may be influenced by our actions, but other things are kismet and cannot be altered no matter what we do or how we try to change it.”

Trudy might have simply nodded. It would have been the polite thing to do, and yet she could not resist asking, “Doesn’t that make us all just victims of circumstance, in that case?”

Miss Watson remained nonplused. “Not at all, Dr. Hart. It only means that the Universe has a purpose for each of us and it’s our calling to find out what that is and to choose which path to take to get there. Much like your dedication to pursuing medicine. If medical school had not been available to you, you would have found another way. But what do you think drove you in that direction in the first place?”

“My father is a physician,” Trudy answered. “I imagine that’s what influenced my interest.”

The woman nodded sagely. “A fair assumption and I’m sure that played a role, but if that were the only reason, then why aren’t your other siblings following the same path? Why is Lucy fascinated with the stars? Why is Coco so determined to prove her worth? You girls have the same parents and yet you’re all very different beings because the Universe has different plans for each of you.”

Trudy didn’t have a good response for that. And she didn’t like not having a good response. She also didn’t care for Miss Watson’s suggestion that Coco didn’t know her own worth. That statement was entirely far-fetched because if anyone was confident in her value and appeal, it was Coco! So, this time, Trudy simply smiled and looked over at the dogs.

“Flossie and Regina certainly have perked up,” she remarked.

Daisy chuckled softly. “My apologies, Miss Watson. Trudy is a skeptic.”

“Yes, I don’t think it requires any psychic ability to discern that,” Miss Watson replied amiably. “But it’s her role to ask those type of interrogative questions. Some of us are naturally comfortable trusting our own intuition, but not everyone is as spiritually in tune with nature’s rhythms. When our head and our heart are not in alignment, it fills us with doubt, but when they are aligned, everything just makes sense, and we are open to receive.”

Ah, how cleverly Miss Watson turned Trudy’s skepticism around to her own advantage. Now, anything Trudy said or did—or believed or didn’t believe—could be chalked up to misalignment, not Trudy’s own analytical intelligence.

Clever, clever, clever.

“Speaking of questions, Miss Watson, I have one I’d like to ask,” Daisy said hesitantly. “What can you tell us about… séances?”

Lucy looked up from the flower crown, her eyes keen with interest, just as Daisy’s were, and Trudy realized her destiny in that moment was to maintain a level head. The mystical idea of a séance was intriguing, and she could understand people’s fascination with it, but again, where was the proof?

“Oh, séances,” Miss Watson said cautiously, leaning toward them. “Those are a dark, tricky business. I won’t participate in those anymore although I led a few in my younger days.”

“Tricky? How so?” Lucy whispered, brows lifting.

“It requires a great deal of psychic energy to call someone over from the other side, and the reader must be strong enough to expel the spirit once the séance has ended. Sometimes the spectral visitor doesn’t want to depart this earthly domain and will cling to a living being until a way is found to sever the attachment. I attended a séance once as a participant, not even as the guide, and left with the most unfortunate echoes of a very intransigent nun who admonished me relentlessly. It took months for me to be rid of the old bat. After that, I said ‘never again.’”

Trudy chuckled at the image of a phantasmagorial Mother Superior berating Miss Watson from over her shoulder, but Daisy and Lucy exchanged enthralled glances.

Looking back at the older woman, Daisy asked quietly, “Is it possible for a spirit to latch on to someone even if they haven’t been to a séance?”

“Sometimes,” Miss Watson responded. “Those who linger in this sphere of awareness when they should move on to the next are often bound to a location, but occasionally they are tethered to a person. Or an object.”

“How fascinating,” Lucy murmured.

“What balderdash,” Trudy thought.

“If that’s the case, how would someone go about freeing themselves from a … tethered spirit?” Daisy asked.

“It requires a gifted medium,” Miss Watson replied. “But if the bond is tightly woven, a séance may be necessary. I once freed a young woman from an exceptionally disruptive phantom. He wasn’t malicious, just a pesky childhood friend who always wanted to play, which was fine while she was still young but as she matured, she eventually wanted to be rid of him. She said she didn’t relish the idea of him tagging along on her honeymoon, if you know what I mean!” Miss Watson giggled at the naughty innuendo, then added, “But he was a stubborn little gent. After several sessions I realized a séance was the only way to get the task accomplished.”

“How intriguing,” Lucy said.

What poppycock, Trudy thought.

“Several sessions of what? Daisy asked.

“It’s rather hard to explain and depends upon the circumstances.”

Trudy considered that to be a very convenient non-answer, and felt a frown form on her face as Daisy said, “But, in theory, if someone wanted to be freed from being haunted, they could come to you, and you might be able to untether them?”

Daisy had no business posing such questions without Alex’s permission, but of course, Trudy couldn’t say as much in front of everyone. Then again, this was likely all hogwash and hokum. Miss Watson didn’t seem capable of untethering a dog from his leash much less wrangling phantoms. Even non-existent phantoms.

“No, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to help,” the woman said. “I’m getting too old for that sort of thing. These days, I limit my exposure to the other side with simple readings. I have my spirit guides whom I trust to protect me, but the nearer I get to crossing over myself, the less influence I have over the departed. I guess I’m getting too close to being one of them!”

She giggled again, but at Daisy’s obvious disappointment, she added, “But if you ever do find yourself in need of such services, I might recommend you seek out Madeline Moyen.”

“Madame Moyen?” Daisy asked, her expression brightening once again. She cast a glance at Trudy as if to say I told you she’s the one we want.

“Yes, she’s formidable, adept at many things but do be careful with that one. You don’t want to open a door that cannot be closed.”

“Do you mean by letting someone through who won’t go back?” Lucy asked.

“I mean that Madaline Moyen is like a powerful magnet. She attracts the living in much the same way she attracts the dead. Make certain you don’t get so near to her you haven’t the strength to break free of your own accord.”

Daisy was about to question that cryptic comment when Poppy plopped down on the center of the blanket followed by two wiggly dogs. It seemed Flossie and Regina were intent upon greeting everyone with their doggie kisses, and Trudy was relieved that their arrival conveniently shifted the mood to something much brighter.

“Coco is talking to a boy,” Poppy said. “Look.”

She pointed past them toward the croquet field where a young man wearing striped knickerbockers and a straw hat was leaning on his mallet, his face unnecessarily close to Trudy’s sister. Coco, meanwhile, was twirling a strand of hair, her expression beatific as if she’d never had a cross thought in her entire life.

“Who is that?” Lucy asked.

“Patrick Fitzpatrick,” Daisy said indifferently. “He’s nice enough, I suppose, but he seems to consider himself rather too clever. His father is a political cartoonist for the Chicago Tribune and although Patrick is full of opinions, it’s clear none of them are his own.”

“Hm,” Miss Watson said, narrowing her deep-set eyes. “You don’t have to worry too much about him.”

“What makes you say so?” Lucy replied.

“Your sister will grow bored of his vanity. He’s so consumed with thoughts of his own attractiveness that he won’t bother to remark upon hers.”

An interesting observation, Trudy mused. She might have thought a vain man would be a good counterpart for her equally vain sister, but Miss Watson’s words made sense. Coco preferred to have the spotlight pointing at herself and didn’t want to share it.

“But you, missy,” Miss Watson added, tapping a crooked finger at the air toward Lucy, “There’s a gentleman thinking of you right this very minute.”

Lucy’s eyes rounded and her cheeks suffused with pink. “There is? Who? Where?”

“I don’t know yet, but he’s somewhere.”

The others looked around as if Lucy’s mystery man might be staring back at them, but Trudy looked at her sister instead. Somewhere someone probably was thinking of Lucy. She was sweet, and smart, and witty, and beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have her. But would she be lucky to have him ?

“Do you think he’s someone on the island?” Lucy whispered to Trudy late that night after the lamps had been extinguished and the only light in their room came from the moon.

“Maybe,” Trudy answered. “Probably,” she added.

Not because she believed in Miss Watson’s clairvoyance but because Lucy had danced with scores of men the other night and had caught the eye of several more. There were likely a dozen admirers who had thought of her today, and although Trudy knew she should be glad for her sister—because Lucy didn’t mind that their mother had sent them here for husbands—she felt a puzzling pang of preemptive loneliness.

Life was going to change whether Trudy wanted it to or not, and she couldn’t help but wonder if at least some of what Miss Watson had said about the future might be true. With resolve and determination, a person could forge their own path, but some things, it seemed, were simply… destiny. Perhaps, in the end, it boiled down to a matter of which was stronger. Fortitude… or fate.