Chapter 6

six

“ I will not have my daughter traipsing about the halls of this establishment like some orphaned guttersnipe,” Alex’s mother stated haughtily from a satin settee in her suite.

The two of them had been engaged in this dispute for a full ten minutes, but Alex knew he’d lose. No one ever won in an argument with Constance Bostwick, but he wasn’t yet willing to raise the white flag of surrender.

“Mother,” he responded with strained patience. “The theatre is down two flights of stairs and around a single corner. Daisy would hardly be traipsing about, not to mention the fact that she knows virtually every person in this hotel, guests and staff alike. I very much doubt she’d be accosted or mistaken for a beggar and thrown out onto the street.”

“Is it really such an enormous imposition to escort your sister to see the trance lecturer perform? What else did you plan to do with your evening?”

His mother could make the most innocent utterance drip with disdain, but this query felt particularly unfair. She knew it was raining. She knew his choices were limited to lounging in the cigar room listening to old men brag of their youthful exploits or lingering in the lobby waiting for someone interested in a game of cards, just as she surely knew his other option was to loll away the evening in his room pondering all the things he’d rather not ponder. Taking Daisy to watch Ambrose Gibson was the only real alternative, and well his mother knew it.

But, oh, how he hated giving in to her perpetual state of annoyance. After all, he wasn’t singularly to blame for the scandals currently swirling around their family. It wasn’t Alex’s fault his libido-driven father had suffered a heart attack while in bed with an opera singer. (Bostwick family scandal number one.) Nor was Alex to blame for that salacious bit of information finding its way into the newspapers. In fact, Alex had gone above and beyond trying to protect the Bostwick name by artfully luring the press away from printing that negative tidbit by tantalizing them with a romantic, whirlwind engagement to Isabella Carnegie .

It had worked, for a spell, but then Izzy died, (thus scandal number two) and the story of the opera singer went public along with an assortment of malicious accusations insinuating Alex had deliberately pushed her down the stairs. So, if anyone had a right to be cranky tonight, it was him. However, no one could out-crank Constance Bostwick. It was time he waved the white flag.

“Very well, Mother. I’ll escort Daisy to the performance, although I’m not sure why Ellis can’t do it.”

“Ellis and Finn have already gone downstairs, and before you even ask, I didn’t bother asking your brother because he’s preoccupied with that artist of his.”

“That artist of his? You mean… his wife?”

His mother’s face twitched as if she’d smelled something foul. “Call her what you will but you’ll never convince me that marriage is legitimate. None of us were even invited to their alleged wedding.”

“Come now, Mother. You know the only reason they didn’t host a grand affair was because they didn’t want to detract from mine.”

“Yes and look how well that turned out.”

His jaw clenched tightly. He wasn’t going to argue with her about this anymore.

“Where is Daisy?” he asked instead.

“She’s in her room, no doubt giggling over nonsense with that lady’s maid we brought along. I really should let the girl go, but she does have a deft touch with styling my hair.” His mother leaned forward to admire her reflection in a nearby mirror.

“If you like the way she style’s your hair then why let her go?”

“I find her entirely too lively,” his mother responded dismissively. “I can’t imagine what possessed Wadsworth to hire such a young and pretty maid. She came highly recommended from the agency but she’s simply too vivacious for my tastes.”

Alex was far removed from the hiring and firing of his parents’ household staff and although he had an inkling of why their butler may have hired a young and pretty maid—and why that might create a host of problems—it seemed rather unfair to let one go for such superficial reasons. Leave it to his mother to fault someone for being too joyful.

“Perhaps she could keep a bag over her head,” he muttered sarcastically as he turned toward Daisy’s door.

“Perhaps you could keep a sock in your mouth,” his mother quipped in response.

He nearly laughed but refused to give her the satisfaction as he rapped on Daisy’s door.

“Come in,” his sister called out.

He stepped inside the room, shutting the door firmly behind him, and discovered Daisy placing a delicate necklace around the throat of the aforementioned maid. Both girls were dressed for an evening out. In fact, if he hadn’t recognized Lorna from the Bostwick household staff, he might have thought her another guest of the hotel, and he realized then that his mother was right, for once. This maid was young and pretty.

He hadn’t paid much attention to her before and had likely only crossed paths with her a few times, but in a fine dress and her hair arranged just so, he could see how she might cause trouble, even if unwittingly. With her blonde hair and pale blue eyes, her coloring reminded him of Isabella, a fact he found distressing in a variety of ways.

“What… have we here?” he asked.

“Lorna’s coming with us,” Daisy answered brightly. “She’s heard so much about Ambrose Gibson, I thought it would be a shame for her to miss this evening’s show.”

Lorna glanced at him then looked away, a blush stealing over her cheeks.

“Unless you think it isn’t proper,” Lorna said demurely. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Of course you’re not a bother,” Daisy answered though the maid was obviously speaking to him. “You must come with us. I won’t hear another word about it. But let’s go out this door,” Daisy added hastily, pulling the girl into the hallway rather than walking though the sitting area of the suite. Alex realized then that his mother was in no way privy to Daisy’s plan.

Lorna looked back at him, uncertainty etched across her features, but his sister gave another hearty tug on her arm.

“Come along or we’ll be late,” Daisy said. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

And down the stairs they went to the Imperial Hotel theater.

In the reception area just outside the doors, waiters in blue jackets served champagne and lemonade from silver trays while finely clad guests gathered in predictable groups; the Goodmans with the Armors and the Marshalls, the Adlers with the Renfroes and the Mooreheads, the Baldwins with the Hobbs. Alex spotted Breezy VonMeisterburger with the Palmers and the Pullmans and promptly steered Daisy and Lorna in the opposite direction toward the entrance of the theater.

Inside was a vast sea of crimson velvet seats, some already occupied but most still empty. The walls of the theater were adorned with gold-flecked paper that seemed to flicker along with the gasoliers, and off to one side of the large stage, a woman in a flowing white dress plucked the strings of a harp with an appropriately haunting melody. Her presence, along with the ethereal music, created a distinctly celestial atmosphere within the room.

From somewhere hidden, a gong sounded, and guests from the reception area began rapidly streaming in to secure their seats. A gentleman Alex didn’t recognize all but elbowed his way around them in his apparent haste, nearly knocking poor Lorna to the floor. Alex caught her arm and offered a reassuring smile.

She smiled back weakly but could hardly meet his gaze, and no wonder. She was obviously nervous. She knew she didn’t belong here. It was a discomfort he could now relate to, that sense of being surrounded by those who thrived on feeling superior. People determined to diminish another’s worth, and the injustice of it rankled him—even though, or perhaps because—he was one of them. He’d been born into privilege and enjoyed every advantage it offered.

Meanwhile, this maid undoubtedly worked as hard—or harder—than virtually anyone in this room. Was she less deserving of a night of entertainment because of her circumstances? He didn’t think so, but knew few others would agree. His mother certainly wouldn’t, and if she learned of this excursion, the girl would be tossed into the cargo hold of the next ship back to Chicago.

That should have occurred to him when they were still upstairs. Daisy’s invitation was born of her own innate generosity, an endearing quality, but one with the potential to create unexpected repercussions. Her kind gesture might very well get the poor girl sacked. Perhaps it was not too late to send her back upstairs.

“There you are!” Daisy exclaimed as she spotted the Hart sisters standing at the end of an aisle.

Now… it was too late.

Daisy moved toward the sisters quickly with Lorna and Alex trailing behind. As they approached, Lucy waved, Trudy offered a polite nod, and Coco’s eyes roved over Alex in much the same way one might inspect a horse for stud services. He nearly thought she was going to check his flanks and teeth. Egad, Ellis would need to improve his game to win the girl’s affection.

“Good evening, Miss Hart. Miss Hart. Dr. Hart.” He nodded at each of them in turn but saved his smile for Trudy.

“Mr. Bostwick,” they responded in unison.

“This is Lorna Albright,” Daisy added.

Alex tamped down the urge to reveal the girl was a Bostwick maid, for her own sake, but held his tongue. This was Daisy’s misadventure. In fact, he suddenly realized with no small amount of relief, he wasn’t actually obligated to stay for the show. His mother had asked him to escort his sister to the theater and he’d done that. His task was complete.

“I’ve delivered you safely,” he whispered to Daisy a moment later as the girls moved toward some empty seats very near the front of the stage. “Come find me in the lobby when it’s over and I’ll take you back upstairs.”

“You’re not staying?” she whispered back with dismay, reaching out to clasp his forearm. “I wish you would. I think it might be good for you.”

“Good for me? Why?”

She gazed up at him earnestly. “You know why. Perhaps you’ll receive a message. Or an explanation.”

“Daisy—” He didn’t want either of those and would have told her so if Dr. Hart had not inadvertently interrupted.

“Ladies, it seems there are not enough seats up front to accommodate us all, but not to worry. I’d rather sit farther back anyway,” she said.

“But you can’t sit by yourself,” Lucy responded.

“I’ll join you in the back,” Alex heard himself say, and was as surprised by his words as Trudy appeared to be. Why had he just made such a foolish offer? He was halfway out the door but just committed to staying for the entire show. Perhaps it was Daisy’s grip on his arm, or his own sense of chivalry, but nonetheless, he’d said what he’d said.

Trudy regarded him carefully before responding.

“Thank you, Mr. Bostwick.”

“I can move back, too,” Coco added quickly, but she was already seated, and Alex was grateful when her sister waved her off.

“Keep your seat, Coco,” Trudy quipped. “The back is where the dull people sit.”

Alex chuckled, his mood lifting as they turned and made their way up the aisle. The place was nearly full now, and ushers were moving along the row of gasoliers, dimming their brightness.

“I’m afraid we may end up quite far back,” he said, guiding her by the elbow.

“Good. That’s where I wanted to be anyway,” she answered.

They found two seats, in the very last row, in the farthest corner of the room, and Trudy’s satisfied amusement showed in her expression as she sat down.

“We’re so far from the front, we’re nearly outside,” she said.

“Just through that exit,” he answered, pointing to a service door nearly covered by a curtain.

For some reason, knowing he could dash through it and be free from this crush of people and whatever might happen on that stage made the thudding of his heart a little less erratic. Truthfully, the idea of sitting in a darkened theater with a spiritualist who could potentially read his mind left Alex clammy and flooded with dread, but sitting next to Trudy offered a modicum of comfort.

“I must confess I’m a bit surprised to see you here at all, Dr. Hart,” he said once they were seated. He spoke quietly although the din of the theater was loud enough to conceal any words they might exchange. “I didn’t think the occult held any interest for you.”

“It interests me, but perhaps not in the conventional manner.”

“In what manner, then?”

He was genuinely interested in her answer. She was an educated woman of science, after all, and seemed a sensible sort not easily influenced by societal trends or superstition. He’d always considered himself to be a sensible sort, too, but given recent events, he’d begun to question the reliability of his own judgment.

“Studying medicine has taught me to rely upon established empirical facts,” she said. “But it’s also shown me there are a great many things occurring all around us that we have yet to comprehend. Just because something may be intangible to our senses, or beyond our current comprehension, that doesn’t negate the possibility of its existence.”

“Please, do continue,” he prompted as she paused.

She turned toward him slightly. “Well, take germ theory, for example. A generation ago, we had little understanding of microbes because they cannot be seen without a microscope, but now we know they’re everywhere. We understand some of the ways they impact our lives but certainly ten years from now, we’ll know so much more.”

“That does make sense,” he said with a contemplative nod. “But how does that relate to the occult? Do you suspect one day we’ll be able to see spirits using some sort of spectral lens?” He was partially teasing, and yet…

She chuckled at his question. “I think that’s unlikely, but my education has taught me to keep an open mind and not let old beliefs hinder potential new discoveries.”

“Old beliefs?”

“The medical community is often slow to accept new information, especially if it flies in the face of universally accepted treatments. It’s as if new ideas somehow threaten the status quo.” She gave a tiny shake of her head before continuing. “It’s 1889, and we’re making scientific breakthroughs every day, yet there are still physicians who refuse to sanitize their hands before laying them on patients because they consider germ theory to be a passing fad. It’s ridiculous. My father always says the only certainty in life is that we will never know all there is to know, and that personal arrogance should never prevent us from seeking out new information. So, I suppose that’s why I’m here. I cannot let my current opinions about the occult prevent me from learning something new—even when it’s about something as silly as ghosts trying to communicate with the living.” She smiled shyly, in spite of her confident words, and his already high opinion of her intelligence rose further.

“What a wise perspective, Dr. Hart. I suppose it is rather arrogant to believe knowledge is finite and unchanging.”

“Precisely, Mr. Bostwick. So, although I may be a skeptic, I try to engage an open mind.”

She leaned toward him, and he caught the twinkle in her eye as she added quietly, “On the other hand, I also want to know what gibberish my sister hears from Mr. Gibson tonight so I might be prepared with a logical, scientific argument when she tries to convince me of its validity.”

The conspiratorial nature of her comment made him laugh out loud, and he was suddenly glad he’d decided to stay.

“In truth, Mr. Bostwick,” she continued when their laughter subsided, “my parents raised us to question everything and to decide for ourselves what we believe. As for the supernatural, I honestly don’t know what happens after we depart this earth. I’ve witnessed inexplicable things that seem divinely orchestrated, and I do hope there’s some place more enlightened waiting for us after we perish, but as of yet, there’s nothing in science to suggest that death isn’t final.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, an expression of uncertainty passed over her face as if she’d realized how that must sound to a recently widowed husband.

“Oh, my goodness. Please forgive me. I’m speaking out of turn and being terribly insensitive.”

But she had not offended him. “On the contrary, Dr. Hart. I find your comments thought-provoking and intriguing. I confess I find myself rather consumed by similar questions these days about this life and whatever happens next.” And whether or not communication continues…

Her uncertainty shifted to sympathy. “Of course you are, Mr. Bostwick. That’s entirely understandable. Please know I’m so very sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine how difficult these past few months have been for you.”

Alex wasn’t sure if she was referring exclusively to the death of his wife, or if she’d heard the rumors, too, but either way, her sincerity tugged at his composure. Kindness seemed in short supply these days, and he appreciated her compassion.

“Thank you, Dr. Hart. I am… managing.” He wasn’t, really, but it was the polite answer.

“Is that why you’re here this evening?” she asked quietly. “To get answers to some of those questions?”

He paused.

And pondered.

She’d been honest and frank with him. Perhaps he owed her the same, but this was not the place to share his story. It was simply too long and complicated, and if he told her all of it, she’d think him mad.

“I’m afraid the answers to my questions might actually make me feel worse,” he said, trying to sound flippant but instead, he sounded melancholy as he added, “But if there’s peace to be found, I would relish some of that.”

She nodded solemnly. “Then I hope tonight you receive whatever will serve you best.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hart.” He stared at her for a moment, perhaps longer than was proper, but she held his gaze. From any other woman that might have seemed brazen, but Trudy Hart lacked artifice. She wasn’t flirting with him. She was just being earnest. Still… his heart thumped a little faster.

Then half a second later it nearly leapt from his chest as Hugo Plank’s voice rang out like a carnival barker from the center of the stage. Alex had been so engrossed in conversation with Dr. Hart he hadn’t even notice the man arriving.

“Good evening, one and all! Welcome to the Imperial Hotel theater!” Hugo nearly shouted. “It’s my great pleasure to formally invite you on a voyage beyond the realm of our understanding, to a place of mysticism and magic, where messages from our dearly departed long to be heard.” He gestured outward as if reaching for something enticing yet elusive, his voice filling the room. “Take a journey into the intangible as the veil is lifted to reveal the unknown. The unseen. The unheard. And the inexplicable.”

Alex smiled as Trudy leaned close again and whispered, “Mr. Plank has missed his calling. He’s quite the showman.”

“Indeed. I wonder if this trance lecturer can equal his flair.”

“Or his fervor.” They chuckled and the woman next to Trudy shushed them.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Hugo said, “It is my great honor to introduce to you a man who has astonished European royalty, astounded the British aristocracy, and amazed American audiences all across our great nation. I give you gifted, the mesmerizing, the ahhhhh-mazing Mr. Ambrose Gibson.”

The harp music swelled, and yet despite Hugo’s overly zealous introduction, the applause was more polite than enthusiastic as Mr. Gibson ambled onto the stage. Alex felt both a twinge of disappointment and a surge of relief. He’d expected someone more…imposing. More mystical. More… dangerous, but Ambrose Gibson was slight of build and dressed in a tuxedo several seasons out of fashion. A long white scarf draped around his neck and jet-black hair falling well past his shoulders lent the only bit of eccentricity to his otherwise average appearance.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, spirits, and guides,” he said as the applause in the theater waned. He had an accent Alex couldn’t place, and although he spoke quietly, the audience had hushed to hear him. “I’m pleased and grateful to be here among you this evening. I am Ambrose Gibson, a simple man, but one blessed with a miraculous and cherished gift. God has given me the ability to commune with your beloved dear ones who have passed over to the other side.”

The harpist continued playing an enchanted melody as Mr. Gibson continued. “Tonight, we seek messages of love and lightness, so fear not, fellow travelers. Nothing that comes forth this evening can harm you. I am here to serve as your guide. You may choose to trust in me, to celebrate my gifts, or you may choose to doubt my words, my intentions, my abilities. The decision is entirely yours. And now, let us begin with an experiment.”

The harpist plucked at the strings, shifting to a tune that seemed almost discordant, and Alex felt the back of his neck prickle with apprehension.

“I need approximately ten volunteers from the audience,” Mr. Gibson said, “but I will let the spirits in the room decide who is to join me on the stage. Willing participants only so those who’d like to assist me, please stand while I put on this blindfold.”

He removed the scarf from his neck and tied it over his eyes as a rumble of excitement circulated around the theater. Alex watched as some guests rose instantaneously and others stood more slowly, awkwardly, smiling at those around them who’d kept their seats.

“It’s tempting to participate, if only to prove him a charlatan,” Trudy whispered, “But I prefer the view from here.”

“As do I,” Alex replied as his hands grew clammy. His nerves were taut and there was simply no reason for it. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. Perhaps he should’ve had a dram of whiskey before the event, like some high-strung dowager.

Damnation! When had he become such a coward?

Alex cleared his throat and sat up straighter, silently reminding himself that nothing here could harm him. Unless Izzy did somehow send a message…

More than half the audience was now on their feet, but as Mr. Gibson—allegedly guided by benevolent phantoms—listed his requirements, one by one, they sat back down.

Remain standing if your mother’s name begins with the letter M.

Remain standing if you’ve ever suffered the loss of a beloved pet.

Remain standing if your shoes are currently pinching your feet.

Alex looked askance as he heard Trudy softly snort at that last question, a bemused smile on her face.

“Are you already taking issue with his talents?” Alex whispered, his tone light-hearted even though his concerns were not.

“Not at all,” she answered, although her expression said otherwise. “Although a skeptic might suggest no spirit guides are necessary when a simple process of elimination is all this is.”

Alex nodded. “But the blindfold. How will he know when there are only ten people are left standing?”

“I suspect the harpist may have something to do with that.”

A chuckle overtook him, and his tension eased. She was right, of course. Thus far, there was nothing otherworldly about this show, and an especially sharp note from the musician when ten participants remained on their feet proved Dr. Hart’s theory correct. Nonetheless, a murmur of approval swept over the crowd as Ambrose yanked the blindfold from his eyes and exclaimed, “The spirits have made their choices!”

Dr. Hart giggled at the theatrics, and he nearly laughed alongside her—until he spotted Lorna walking toward the stage.

“Oh, good heavens,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“Lorna,” he replied. The maid was looking around with uncertainty, a pained, awkward expression on her face.

“Daisy’s friend?” Dr. Hart asked.

“Daisy’s maid,” he answered quietly.

“Lorna is her maid?” Trudy craned her neck to get a better view. “She doesn’t look very happy to be participating.”

“Nor should she,” he said tersely. “I suspect, much like Poppy’s cat, this girl has been dragged along on an excursion she didn’t ask for. And if this fortune teller is worth an ounce of salt, he’ll be on to her in no time.”

This was most unfortunate. Alex should have sent the girl back to her room when he’d had the chance, but now the die was cast. She was on the stage and in front of an audience of his peers who would love nothing more than to learn her secrets, not to mention secrets about his family and their private struggles. His neck began to prickle again, in earnest this time. Suddenly a message from Isabella was the least of his concerns.

“Dear friends,” Ambrose called out to the audience once the volunteers were seated in a row on stage. “Rather than calling forth your loved ones on my own, I will endeavor to send these intrepid voyagers into another realm.” He gestured to the volunteers who were now glancing at one another with uncertainty. “Once they’ve reached a transcendental state, they will serve as conduits for messages from the great beyond.”

Alex crossed his arms as Ambrose turned his back to the audience and spoke quietly to the wide-eyed participants. There were seven women and four men with Lorna surely being the youngest.

Ah, Lorna. What a foolish girl she was for having volunteered. And what a foolish sister Daisy was for inviting her in the first place. And… what a foolish man Alex was for allowing it. This entire scenario was avoidable. If he’d had the stamina to refuse his mother, he’d be in his room right now, minding his own business, and his sister and her maid would be in theirs.

But… perhaps he was worrying over nothing. Perhaps it would all be fine. Then he chuckled again at his frail optimism even though nothing about this was comical.

Moments passed. Ambrose Gibson continued to murmur, pacing back and forth in front of the intrepid voyagers , and the audience remained hushed, as one by one, the participants slumped in their chairs. First their face would go slack, they’d slowly blink, and then their shoulders and chin would droop until, finally, they appeared to be deep in sleep.

Lorna was the last to fall.

To the uninformed this surely looked miraculous and mystical, but Trudy was familiar with the tenants of hypnosis. Ambrose Gibson was a skilled practitioner of mesmerism to be sure, but that didn’t mean he could read minds or consult with the deceased. This was a clever parlor trick and nothing more.

Beside her, Alexander Bostwick fidgeted, and she could not tell if it was from nervousness or boredom. Regardless, she suspected his disquiet had little to do with what was happening on the stage and was instead symptomatic of what was going on inside his mind. He was likely thinking of his wife, and Trudy flushed with regret.

Had she really suggested to the man his dearly departed bride was nothing more than worm food? Had she left every iota of her bedside manner back at her father’s clinic? She shook her head in the darkened theater and wondered how to apologize to him again without sounding even more insensitive.

He’d been gracious, though, just as he’d been a few days ago at the cottage site, and during every brief encounter they’d had since. The truth was, Mr. Bostwick was a far kinder man than she’d given him credit for on that first day at the hotel. She’d boasted tonight of having an open mind, and yet she’d carried a grudge for all these years simply because of something he’d said to her when they were children.

Granted, what he’d said had been cruel and had rung in her ears for years afterward, but he’d been ten years old at the time, and ten-year-old boys (or boys in general) were not known for their sensitivity. If she’d learned anything at all from Asher, it was that!

“Rejoice. Their journey is complete,” Ambrose said as Lorna finally succumbed to the slumber of hypnosis. Then, speaking to the participants, he said softly, “My dear friends, I’d like you all to sit up straight and open your eyes.”

They promptly responded, their collective gazes locked on him, sending a chill through Trudy. She understood how the process of hypnosis worked, but Ambrose’s influence was unnerving. Beside her, Alex gripped the armrests, his knee bouncing slightly, and Trudy wished they were better acquainted so she might lay a calming hand over his arm. But they weren’t, and so she didn’t.

“Are you well?” she whispered instead.

“I’m fine,” he answered without looking her way.

“I’ve guided you into another realm,” Ambrose continued from the stage, his voice soothing in the quiet theater. “A place where our loved ones linger in peace and harmony. With your consent, they’ll share their messages through you. If you have a message to deliver, please raise your right hand.”

The audience buzzed with excitement as each participant slowly lifted a hand. Another chill tingled through Trudy’s limbs. Again, she understood how hypnosis influenced behavior, but the man was a convincing entertainer!

“Very good,” Ambrose said. “Lower your hands. When I touch your shoulder, please stand and I will guide you.”

A plump woman in a burgundy dress was the first to rise.

“What is your name, my dear?” Ambrose asked.

“Mrs. Robert Turnham.”

“Who has given you a message?”

“My brother-in-law, Edgar. For his wife.”

A tiny gasp came from the audience, no doubt from Edgar’s wife.

“What does Edgar want to say to his wife?” Ambrose prompted.

Her voice lowered as she said, “Bitsy, honey, I love you. I don’t want you to be alone. Move in with Cousin Lilly. Sell the house. Bobbie will give you a good price for it.”

Another gasp, followed by murmurs of amazement, but Trudy smiled. Whether cognitively aware of it or not, Mrs. Robert “Bobbie” Turnham was angling to scoop her sister’s house right out from under her, and all with dear, old, dead Edgar’s blessing.

But as other voyagers stood and delivered equally convenient messages, Trudy sensed those around her being thoroughly seduced by Ambrose’s skillful manipulation. He knew how to cleverly lead the speaker with vague questions, then steer them with more pointed suggestions, and even redirect a message if it took an irrelevant turn. But he wasn’t a psychic, in Trudy’s opinion. He was an adept magician disarming these people with hypnotism.

Then Lorna’s turn came, and Alex went from fidgety to motionless.

“What is your name, my dear?” Ambrose asked.

“Lorna Albright.”

“And what message have you been asked to deliver?”

She frowned and twisted the fabric of her skirt in clenched fists. “I’m not… sure.”

“You’re not sure?” Ambrose asked.

Lorna shook her head, and Alex shifted uneasily in his seat.

“Who is the message from? Can you name them?” Ambrose prodded.

Lorna hesitated again. “No. I can’t tell.”

A ripple of curiosity circled the room, and Trudy heard Alex exhale slowly.

“Take my hands, dear child,” Ambrose said. “Allow me to look into your eyes and sense what message you’ve been asked to deliver. I can help you.” He clasped her hands and held her gaze for what seemed an eternity. The tension in the room compounded with every second as Lorna’s apparent discomfort increased.

Even Trudy set aside her skepticism for the moment and leaned forward. Whatever the meaning of this, she was captivated, but if she discerned that Ambrose Gibson was manipulating a young girl for the sake of showmanship and this audience’s entertainment, she’d leave no stone unturned to expose him as a fraud.

Sixty seconds seemed like sixty minutes, and then Lorna abruptly pulled her hands free and jerked backwards as if shoved.

“I can’t say it!” Lorna said stridently. “It’s too cruel.”

The audience gasped as one, and Trudy sat back in her seat, glancing discreetly at Alex. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed at his forehead with an unsteady hand, then he stared down at the fabric in his fingers. With a quietly muttered curse, he rose from his seat and strode out of the theater through the nearby service door.

Trudy watched his departure, while on the stage, Ambrose had placed a hand on Lorna’s forehead.

“No woebegone spirits are welcome here. I cast you out. Leave this young woman and never return.” More murmurs rippled through the crowd as he continued. “Miss Albright, you’ll remember none of this. You’ll feel refreshed and alert when I count back from three, two, one…” Then he snapped his fingers, and her body twitched. She blinked rapidly, shaking her head and looking around, her previously pained expression shifting instantly to relaxed but bewildered. She smiled shyly.

“Are we starting now?” she asked, and it seemed everyone in the audience began to speak at once.

Trudy was flummoxed. Should she check on the girl? Probably, but her greater concern was Alex, so after the briefest hesitation, she rose to her feet and followed him. Exiting through the same door and looking in both directions, she caught a glimpse of his retreating form at the end of a long corridor leading toward the back of the hotel.

“Mr. Bostwick,” she called out, but his pace only increased. She lost sight of him as he rounded a corner, and she heard another door open and shut. Walking as briskly as her skirts would allow, she found herself a moment later stepping outside and into a misty rain. A nearby lamppost illuminated the area, casting gloomy shadows, and she spotted him not far from it, leaning against the building.

“Mr. Bostwick?” she said again.

“Go back inside, Dr. Hart. It’s raining,” he said quietly.

“I might offer you the same advice,” she said, letting the door shut behind her.

“I just needed some air.”

“And so you’ve found some.”

He frowned at her for a moment, brows furrowed. “You must think me quite unstable.”

“On the contrary. I think it was courageous of you to sit through a show that obviously made you uncomfortable.”

“Obvious, was it?”

There was her excellent bedside manner again. What was wrong with her?

“Not at all,” she lied. “Until the very end, and I daresay the entire audience was distressed by that demonstration. I know I was.”

He leaned his head back against the wood, closing his eyes. “Would you please go back inside? I can’t be responsible for you falling ill from standing outside in inclement weather.”

She held her hand out, palm up. “Hardly inclement, sir. This isn’t enough moisture to water a fern. And besides, I’m made of sturdy stuff.”

“So, it would seem,” he said on a sigh.

He appeared rather despondent, and she was at a loss. She didn’t want to intrude upon his solitude, but it seemed perhaps he could use a friend. She stepped closer and took a place beside him, leaning against the rain-dampened wooden siding. A slight awning overhead protected them from some of the rain, but not all of it.

“How long do you plan to stay out here,” she asked casually.

“I haven’t really formulated a plan, as of yet. My primary purpose was merely to escape the theater.”

She nodded, wiping raindrops from her cheek. “In that case, well done. You did indeed escape the theater.”

She was rewarded with a rueful chuckle. “Rather out of the frying pan, into the fire, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

“Something akin to that. More like out of a leaky boat and into the lake.”

They lingered a moment in silence, Trudy wondering just how she might convince him to go back inside. She didn’t relish the idea of her gown getting wet, but neither did she relish the idea of leaving him out here alone when he was in some sort of distress. She was a physician, after all. It was her obligation to help him heal from whatever ailed him.

“Are you familiar with hypnotism, Mr. Bostwick?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s when a practitioner, such as Mr. Gibson, coaxes people into a kind of half-sleep. A state of lucid dreaming, if you will, and in that state, people become very susceptible to the power of suggestion.”

“And?”

“And it’s my hypothesis that no one on that stage actually communed with otherworldly spirits but were instead delivering messages they imagined their loved ones would want to share, if they could.”

“Are you saying every person on that stage conspired to deceive us?”

“No, not the participants. Only Mr. Gibson. Under his spell of hypnosis, they were freed from inhibition and spoke without fear of judgment or reprisal. With his subtle coaxing, they were compelled to reveal thoughts and longings they may have otherwise kept buried. Thoughts they may not have even realized they had.”

“Hm,” he said, seeming neither relieved nor impressed by her observation.

“And what do you suppose happened with Lorna?” he asked.

“I cannot say for certain, but I suspect whatever thoughts or perhaps even memories she was experiencing distressed her. Our mind will go to great lengths to protect us, so it’s possible that something in her past or her worry at being discovered as a lady’s maid prevented her from sharing.”

He nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s a possibility.”

She’d thought to ease his tension with her explanation, but he remained unmoved. Meanwhile, her dress was getting damper by the minute, she had no hat and so her hair was certainly getting soggy, and the wind had picked up causing her a chill. Perhaps she could—and probably should—leave him outside to work through his own musings. Her company did not seem to be improving his mood. She was about to say as much when he spoke again.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Dr. Hart,” he said, his tone definitive, almost defiant.

“Don’t you?”

“No. I don’t believe in spirits or phantoms or things that go bump in the night. I don’t believe in soothsayers or mentalists or anyone who claims to have an ability to speak with the dead. None of it.”

“I see.”

“Except…” he tilted his head forward and looked down at the ground.

“Except… what?”

“Except that my wife is haunting me.”

Her heart flooded with sympathy, and she forgot her wet hair and soggy dress. “Oh, Mr. Bostwick. It’s entirely understandable that you feel that way. When we lose someone dear to us, grief plays tricks. Our longings and our memories can be so powerful we’re convinced our dearly departed linger nearby. There’s nothing wrong with that. In time, you’ll be able to say goodbye and let her go.”

He shook his head slowly, his sigh heavy.

“No, you don’t understand.” He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket again, just as he’d done a few moments ago in the theater.

“Do you see this?” he asked.

“Your handkerchief?”

“Isabella’s handkerchief. It belonged to her.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “You carry a token to remember her by. I think that’s lovely and not at all unusual.”

“It was in my pocket,” he said, as if she still misunderstood.

“Yes, I saw you take it out in the theater.”

“But I didn’t put it there.”

It almost seemed as if he wanted to argue, and she thought it best to just go along. But she was confused. “What do you mean you didn’t put it there?”

“I mean exactly that. When I donned this jacket earlier in the evening, my pockets were empty. I know because I’ve taken to checking. Then I put my own handkerchief inside this one. It’s still there. But so was hers.”

“I see. Perhaps they were folded together by a careless laundress. Is that possible?”

He pressed his lips together for a moment, as if considering her words—and his— very carefully.

“It would be possible, I suppose, if this were an isolated incident, but it isn’t. Dr. Hart, may I share something with you in the strictest confidence? Something you vow not to share with anyone else?”

“Of course, Mr. Bostwick. You can be sure of my discretion. Anything you say will remain entirely between us.”

He stared down at her, as if evaluating her trustworthiness. She was on the verge of reminding him she was a physician whose patients trusted her with the most sensitive and intimate information, but at last he spoke.

“Ever since my wife’s death, her belongings have been appearing in strange and peculiar places for me to find.”

She paused, having expected him to reveal something a bit more… spooky.

“That is peculiar, I suppose, but perhaps someone is simply moving her items to places they think they belong.”

“That’s what I thought at first,” he said. “The morning of her funeral, I found her hair comb under my pillow. I could not imagine how it got there since she’d never dressed in my room, but I pushed my curiosity aside and forgot about it. But then a few days later, I discovered one of her stockings between the pages of a book I’d been reading. Certainly not a logical place for it. And in the months since, there have been dozens of such occurrences. I’ve found her jewelry among my cufflinks, her brooch pinned inside my overcoat, her glove in the pocket of my trousers, even a letter I’d once written to her stuffed into the toe of one of my riding boots. And tonight, her handkerchief appeared in my jacket pocket.”

Odd, indeed, but hardly indicative of anything supernatural.

“I… I don’t know what to make of that,” she said.

“Nor do I. I’d thought leaving Chicago and coming here, to a place she’d never been, might put an end to these incidents, but they’ve continued. That’s why I suspect she’s haunting me—even though I don’t believe in such nonsense. And now you must certainly think me unstable. God knows I do.”

She wanted to comfort and reassure him but what he said was bizarre and unsettling. She didn’t know what to make of it.

“I don’t think you’re unstable, Mr. Bostwick, but…”

“Perhaps you could call me Alex.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve just revealed to you my rather dark and shameful secret so perhaps you could call me Alex? I think we’ve moved beyond formalities.”

“Oh, of course. Alex. Then you may call me Trudy, but why do you say shameful? Whatever is happening, it’s through no fault of your own.”

“Not all would see it that way. I was… an imperfect husband, you see. Perhaps Isabella is taunting me out of spite.”

At Trudy’s hesitation, he added ruefully, “I did not push her down the stairs, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She was wondering that... a little bit…

“Of course you didn’t,” she said, as if to convince them both. “But obviously you’re aware of the gossip. Is it possible someone is playing a cruel prank?”

“Believe me, I have set my mind to the task of answering that question on a daily basis, but I cannot think of who would benefit from it. Especially someone with access to her items as well as mine. As I said, my pocket did not contain her handkerchief when I put this jacket on a few hours ago so how did it appear there if not by supernatural means?”

“I cannot imagine. Have you told anyone else of these incidents?”

“Only Daisy, and only then because she was with me when I found a lock of Izzy’s hair inside one of my riding gloves.”

“What did Daisy think when you revealed it?”

He scoffed lightly. “She thinks my wife is leaving sweet mementos for me to remember her by, but that was not Izzy’s nature. My wife was not… sentimental.”

“She wasn’t?”

“No.”

It seemed there was more to say on that particular subject, but a chill ran through Trudy, either from his story or from the fact that she’d been standing in drizzle for half an hour, and she visibly shivered.

“Goodness me,” he said, “How selfish I am to make you stand out here in the rain. Let’s get you inside.” He shrugged out of his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders before pulling open the door and ushering her back into the brightly lit hallway.

“Trudy, my goodness! There you are!” Coco called out from halfway up the hallway. Her expression of relief soured when she realized who Trudy was with. “Why, Mr. Bostwick. Whatever are you two doing out there in the rain? You’ll cause a scandal.”

“All the excitement of the trance lecture made me lightheaded,” Trudy answered quickly. “Mr. Bostwick was kind enough to escort me outside for a breath of fresh air.”

Coco’s eyes narrowed with doubt.

“Is my sister nearby?” Alex asked. “I told her to find me after the show.”

“The show has only just ended,” Coco replied. “But your cousin, Ellis, was on hand to escort Daisy and Miss Albright back upstairs.”

“And how is Miss Albright?” Trudy asked, pulling Alex’s coat from her shoulders and returning it to him.

“She’s fine, so far as I know. Why wouldn’t she be?” Coco answered dismissively, watching Alex as he slid his arms back into his jacket.

“Uh… she had a rather strange experience on the stage, wouldn’t you say?” Trudy replied. “A person might be a little shaken up after something like that.”

“She doesn’t remember any of it,” Coco answered. “And Daisy was making such a fuss over her, I think she rather liked the attention.”

“She doesn’t remember any of it?” Alex asked.

“No,” Coco said with a tiny toss of her head. “Personally, I think she was just pretending. She probably didn’t receive any sort of message at all and was just too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Coco, that’s uncharitable,” Trudy scolded gently. “You shouldn’t say such a thing.”

“You also shouldn’t pretend to be a person of means when you’re not. Did you know she’s just a house maid?”

“Yes, I did,” Trudy responded curtly. Then she turned toward Alex, adding, “Please forgive my sister, Mr. Bostwick. She’s far too concerned with status and position.”

“I’m concerned with propriety,” Coco responded, “As you should be. If Aunt Breezy discovers you’ve been loitering outside with a man, she’ll have plenty to say about it.”

“Ah, Miss Hart,” Alex said smoothly, “How thoughtful you are to be concerned over your sister’s reputation, but you have my word, as a gentleman, nothing untoward has occurred. Now, I was wondering, will you be attending the dance on Saturday evening?”

That sly dog.

Coco stern expression melted into girlishness. “I… why, yes, of course, Mr. Bostwick. Will you be in attendance as well?”

“I will. I’ll look forward to seeing you on the dance floor. In the meantime, perhaps I could escort you both to the lobby before I go check on my sister and her… and Miss Albright.”

He stepped forward and held out an arm for Coco.

Trudy nearly laughed aloud at his obvious ploy, but as they moved together down the hallway, her mind spun with curiosity and the overwhelming question of how to reconcile the many different versions of Alexander Bostwick. There was the obnoxious ten-year-old boy hurling reckless taunts. The feline-rescuing good Samaritan. The solicitous gentleman who seemed interested in her opinions and wrapped her in his jacket. But there was also the handsome, young widower embroiled in scandal. And perhaps even a haunted bridegroom.

Somewhere in all that was … just Alex.

Like an intriguing puzzle to be assembled, she would need to find more pieces until the final image emerged, and as they made their way toward the lobby, the challenge filled her with uneasy yet irresistible anticipation.