Chapter 23

twenty-three

P erched on the edge of a velvet chair, nerves taut, fists clenched in her lap to still their trembling, Trudy faced the renowned Madame Moyen—a surprisingly petite woman with a magnetic presence. With dark hair cascading loosely down her back and a widow’s veil worn over her luminous face, the medium presented a theatrical yet compelling mystique as she revealed, in a slightly French accent, a litany of things about Trudy she should not have known.

Things she simply could not have known—without some source from beyond.

Lights from the ballroom shone though the red silk of the tent lending everything within the tiny space an otherworldly crimson hue as Trudy’s trepidation grew. The protective layers of her certainty in science were being slowly stripped away even as the messages she was receiving convinced her to remain dedicated to it.

“My dear mademoiselle,” Madame Moyen continued in her melodious lilting accent, “If you come to me with questions, you must be prepared to receive the answers. But do not worry. All will be well. You are a woman out of step with time, but do not alter your path because of this. It is the world that must catch up to you. Trust yourself and your skills. You’ll be called upon to use them soon enough.”

“I will?”

Madame Moyen nodded. “A woman nears her time, and she will need you.”

Thoughts of Jo filled Trudy’s mind, but she realized Madame Moyen watched her reactions like a maestro and tried to keep her face devoid of emotion. She merely dipped her head in understanding and realized she’d seen at least a dozen expectant mothers staying at the hotel. It was a safe assumption on the psychic’s part. Although how the woman had known, almost instantaneously, that Trudy was a healer still had her senses reeling.

Off to the side of the tent was a table filled with an eclectic array of curiosities fit for a spiritualist’s trade, a cloudy crystal ball, tarot cards tattered from years of use, a few feathers and rocks, a brass pendulum, and a bundle of lavender. Madame Moyen plucked a strand from the bundle and rubbed it between her hands letting its scent fill the space.

“Others will need you, too, so do not let your own doubts discourage you. And do not be led astray by the whims of others. Make up your own mind about everything. Do you understand this?”

Trudy nodded hesitantly, wondering if it was the whims of Alexander Bostwick the psychic was referring to. But was he truly attempting to lead her astray, or rather guide her to a place she was eager to go? Definitely the latter. Whatever might occur between them, Trudy would be equally responsible. She was a progressive woman, after all, and she made her own decisions.

“And now, will you ask me about love?” Madame Moyen said with a languid smile.

“Love?” Trudy replied, startled that the mystic had mentioned the word at the exact same moment Trudy’s thoughts had turned to Alex.

“Yes, you are as yet unmarried, and I sense it is on your mind.”

Perhaps it was a coincidence. A fortuitous guess or the simple assumption that every single woman must long for a husband.

“Love is not on my mind.”

Madame Moyen tilted her head, her smile enigmatic. “Ah, so you say, but I will tell you anyway, it is on the horizon. Just remember, some love rolls in like thunder, sometimes it is a gentle rain encouraging the bud of friendship to bloom into something more, and occasionally, it lies dormant for a bit before blossoming… like an amaryllis.”

Alex felt like a child standing in line for a carnival game, but like the scavenger hunt, he was surround by sophisticated adult men who on any other day would have been commanding a boardroom. Potter Palmer was, at this moment, buying a meat pie from a vendor although not so much a vender as it was Harlan Callaghan dressed like a farmer in overalls and a large straw hat. Philip Armour, looking somewhat dazed and amazed, was leaving the tent of a clairvoyant named Lenora Piper. And Senator Gould was trying his luck at a ring toss. Like most politicians, he frequently missed the mark.

“You should go ahead of us,” Daisy prompted when they’d reached the front of the queue to Madame Moyen’s tent. “We don’t mind, do we, Lorna?”

Lorna shook her head and smiled easily. “I don’t mind. It’s just nice to be out. I haven’t seen much of the hotel. Oh, but please do tell your mother how much I appreciate her allowing me to come. It was so gracious of her.”

Alex and Daisy exchanged smiles. He’d never heard anyone refer to Constance as gracious before and judging from his sister’s wide smile, neither had she.

A moment later, the red silk curtain of Madame Moyen’s tent opened, and a turbaned assistant guided Alex to a velvet seat. His heart was already thrumming inside his chest as if he’d run here from afar, and every muscle in his body was tense with unease, but he’d sat through four other readings today and none had alarmed him, nor satisfied him, and it was likely this Moyen woman would be no different, in spite of her reputation.

As he sat down, he took note of the woman before him. She wore mourning garb, and he wondered what she was hiding under that veil, although from the bit he could see of her face, she appeared pretty—in an eerie sort of way. Truthfully, he’d expected someone more flamboyant. And bigger. The woman was very tiny.

He knew that Trudy had seen her earlier and wondered about the exchange, but the two of them had agreed not to converse at this event so no spiritualists might see them together. They’d also agreed that while Trudy would ask about a spirit’s ability to move objects, he would not, the purpose being to distance himself from Isabella’s supposed antics as much as possible.

“Good afternoon,” Madame Moyen said quietly. He heard traces of an accent. French, perhaps.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, although his voice sounded strained, even to his own ears.

She instantly pressed back against her chair as he spoke, her posture stiffening. She rose up immediately and walked to a wooden chest not far from the table where they sat. Opening it, she took out a bundle of herbs and handed them to her assistant, whispering into his ear.

The assistant cast a wary glance at Alex, then set about lighting the tip of the herb bundle and gently waving it around the edges of the tent.

“Forgive me, sir,” Madame Moyen said calmly as she sat back down. “What brings you here?”

“My destiny, I suppose.”

“Not your past?” she asked cautiously.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your past is draped around you like a shroud. Perhaps we should talk about that.”

“Very well,” he replied, a trickle of fear running down his spine. “What about my past do you think I should know?”

“You already know.” Her voice deepened as she curled forward in her chair, causing him to lean back abruptly in his. Her response was most unnerving.

“Tell me anyway,” he replied, uncertain if he believed her, and yet more certain that he did. His heart seemed to skip a beat and then race to catch up.

“You are troubled by an angry spirit. Someone once very close to you. Recently departed, although still too close.”

Her words were like a physical blow and his breath went shallow in his chest. He suddenly longed for the vague ambiguities delivered with a comforting smile from the other clairvoyants.

“I am troubled,” he admitted carefully. “What can I do about it?”

“Give me your hands.”

He reluctantly reached across the table, and she flipped them over. She traced a single finger against one palm and then the next, saying nothing for what seemed an eternity. Meanwhile the assistant waved the smoking bundle of herbs all around them.

“This woman was… this is confusing,” Madame Moyen finally muttered looking up at him.

“What’s confusing?”

“She was… not a lover, and yet…”

He wished he could see her expression more clearly through the veil, not that it would change anything.

“Was this woman your wife?” she asked, her accent growing stronger.

Alex felt his jaw clench involuntarily and would have pulled his hands back except she grasped them tightly now.

“Yes,” he said, his voice strangled.

“You wanted to be rid of her?”

“No.”

Madame Moyen tilted her head and let go of his hands. He pulled them back to his sides as she replied, “The spirits have no capacity for untruths. She believes you wanted to be rid of her.”

He’d wanted to be rid of her as his wife , but not rid of her as in rid of her. He’d never wanted any harm to come to Isabella. He’d only wanted his freedom from the misery of their marriage.

“We had a misunderstanding right before she died,” he replied.

“I see.”

Madame Moyen reached over to a table beside them and picked up a small, purple velvet pouch. She shook it a few times, then offered it to him.

“Choose four and lay them on the table,” she said.

Alex didn’t relish the idea of reaching into a bag without knowing what was inside, but it seemed he had little choice. He did as instructed and placed four smooth stones with simple markings on the table between them.

Madame Moyen leaned over, humming as she examined his choices.

“Eihwaz, pertho, hagalaz, and algiz. You’re fortunate you chose this one,” she said, pushing one in his direction. “Algiz. This will shield you from negative spirits. Keep it. Put it in your pocket.”

He accepted it gingerly as she shook her head at the others with a tsk, tsk, tsk.

“You are most certainly at risk from her energy. She is turbulent and chaotic. You will need a spiritual defense to protect you.”

She looked up at him again. “Was she stubborn in life?”

“Very.” He might have chuckled at the question if this whole encounter wasn’t currently flooding him with dread.

“She will not go away without an apology.”

“An… apology? You mean all I need to do is tell her I’m sorry?” Could it be so simple? Of course not.

Madame Moyen shook her head. “No, she’s trapped in the void and cannot hear you. Once a spirit has moved on we can speak to them easily, but this woman is a tempest, and she’s trapped.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“We may attempt to pull her back to our side with a séance. Once she has your apology, with some good fortune, she’ll move on. I can help you, but time is of the essence.”

“Why?”

“The longer she remains in turmoil, the more difficult it may be to reach her. She’ll become angrier, perhaps dangerous. She’ll continue to trouble you until she’s released.”

“Released… by a séance?”

Madame Moyen nodded.

Her words spun in his mind like a cyclone, the notion of Isabella taunting him until the end of his days was more than he could fathom. And she didn’t deserve to be trapped—wherever she was. He wanted Izzy to be free to move on just as much as he wanted that for himself.

And then there was Trudy. Beautiful, brilliant Trudy.

How could he hope to include her in his life in any way with an ever-angrier spirit tormenting him? He couldn’t, and so, as outlandish as it was, it seemed there was only one solution.

“Then we must have a séance,” he said.

Alex had little recollection of leaving Madame Moyen’s tent at the Mystic Melee. Nor did he recall walking back to his room afterward. He had a vague awareness of saying something to his sister and Lorna, and of seeing Trudy’s face across the crowded ballroom, but now he was standing on the threshold of his room where he’d come seeking solace.

Only there was none to be found. Strewn haphazardly across the floor, on the bed, the desk, everywhere, were scattered gardenias. Not fresh, whole blossoms, but rather gardenias with their petals and stems torn asunder, ravaged by a vengeful force, shredded by wrath. Their cloying scent hung in the air like a foul stench.

He stepped inside, half expecting to see Isabella’s ethereal form laughing at his dismay, but it was empty. At least, from what he could see it was empty. How was he to know if she lurked nearby, invisible and irate?

A gentle rap on the door behind him clanged like a warning bell and he whirled around in agitation.

But it was Trudy.

Thank heavens, it was Trudy, her hazel eyes full of concern for him alone then widening in surprise as she surveyed the chaos of his room.

She looked back at him, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

He hesitated, uncertain how to answer. Was he all right? Was he responsible for this mayhem? Was he doomed? In danger?

Was she?

As Trudy stepped closer, he raised a hand. She was already too enmeshed in this chaos. He could not, would not put her at greater risk.

“If this is what’s to come, you should stay far away from me,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” she asked.

“No, but Madame Moyen says things may get… more turbulent until I rid myself of Isabella.”

“Rid yourself?”

With a single nod, he answered. “With a séance. It’s madness, I know, but so is this.” He gestured to the disarray all around them, not quite believing his own eyes.

In spite of his warning, Trudy closed the distance between them, pressing gentle hands against his chest and gazing at him with a mix of concern and compassion.

“What can I do?” she whispered.

Alex stood motionless, his arms at his sides, torn between his need to pull her close, to take comfort in her tranquil strength, and his fear of putting her in harm’s way. If he embraced her now, he might never be able to let her go, but this room was poisoned by gardenias and bad memories. And this was not what she’d agreed to all those weeks ago when she’d offered to help him solve a simple riddle. This was so much more than that.

His breath felt jagged in his lungs as he spoke.

“You should go. I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt.”

“It’s just flowers,” she murmured.

“You should still go. Let me clean up this mess and then I’ll come find you.”

She moved closer instead, molding her body against his and sliding her hands up to lightly rest her palms against his cheeks. She ran one thumb across his lips and whispered, “Or I could do this.”

And then she kissed him.

Every nerve and muscle in his body felt the sensation of her mouth on his. It was exactly what he wanted, and what he needed. Her tender caress. Her concern. Her kiss.

A sense of calm washed over him, as if he’d just arrived home after an arduous journey and had found utter contentment, but that peace was quickly washed away, doused by a flood of pure desire. He wound his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him, as if he could not bear the thought of any space between them.

Every ounce of his being sank into that kiss and the thrill of her hands winding around to weave her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck. The moment was sublime as somehow Trudy Hart turned the worst day of his life into the best day.

He wanted to go on like this for all eternity, but she pulled back after a moment, chuckling softly and looking at him as if surprised by her own boldness. Her eyes were luminous as she whispered, “We were all wondering if your hair is soft and it is.” And then she smiled at the admission.

He smiled back, wishing he could pull the pins from hers. The thought of it cascading over a pillow nearly stole his breath away.

“We?” he asked, his voice husky.

“My sisters and I,” she admitted sheepishly, and he laughed at her expression as he wondered how a woman so brave and self-assured could also be so adorable. It was a mystery he wanted to explore for days and days, but he sobered as the reality of the moment returned him to his senses.

“I do fear for your safety, Trudy,” he said, grasping her gently by the shoulders and leaning his forehead against hers. “As much as I would love continue on this path, I think we have immediate matters that are more pressing.”

“I know. Tell me what you need.”

So many things. He needed so many things. He needed her. He needed answers. He needed Isabella out of his life for good.

But as he looked around his room at the shredded flowers he said, “I need a broom.”