BLOOD AND WATER

Dorothy and Edgar Whitfield lived several miles south-east of Yarragon on a piece of fertile farmland comprising the flat land immediately south of the railway line and the steep slopes of the nearby hills. It was far enough from Melbourne that Ellen and William could be excused for visiting infrequently, but not so far that the journey was irksome when they did undertake it. Indeed, if Ellen had been going anywhere else, she would have enjoyed the train ride greatly. There was always something magical about the moment when the clutter of shops and houses gave way first to neat paddocks and then to the untouched wilds of nature.

As much as she enjoyed the bustle of Melbourne, Ellen would always carry her rural upbringing with her. If her life had unfolded differently, she might have remained happy on the Whitfields’ dairy farm forever. William would have married a country girl and managed the farm beside their father, while Ellen would have kept ducks and chickens and ruined her complexion with too much sun. And Bella…Bella would have grown up to be kind and beautiful and the best of them all. Ellen was sure of it.

But that was another life and another Ellen. The Ellen who had left the farm and the countryside had seen no other way forward. The house had grown cold without Bella’s cheerful voice to warm it, and so had Ellen’s parents. She had faint memories of silly parlour games and songs around the piano, but when Bella died all became sombre. Her mother did the housework as if caught in treacle and her father spent every hour in the milking shed or the paddocks. Only William talked to Ellen as he always had; only William looked at her without accusation in his eyes.

They had been close before—unusually so, perhaps, for brother and sister—but that terrible time drew them even closer. Ellen did all she could to take care of William when their mother could barely take care of herself, and—she would only admit it under duress—William had cared for Ellen too. Without his unwavering acceptance, she would have frozen quite solid.

And so the decision to leave the farm had been a simple one. William was better suited to banking than he had ever been to farming and Ellen, for her part, enjoyed the incessant activity of Melbourne and the ease of having all she needed close to home. Occasionally, she and William would reminisce about picnics and climbing trees for apples, but it was understood that both were happier as they were now. And they only ever returned to the farm if they could do so together: an unstated rule that neither cared to break.

On that Saturday, they were met at the railway station by a cart driven by the farmhand who had worked for Edgar Whitfield for many years. Ellen liked him well enough, but couldn’t help a pang of sadness that their father hadn’t thought to greet them himself. Every time she thought she had finally become inured to her parents’ indifference, some small thing would happen to remind her that there were wounds that could never fully heal. She was determined, however, not to let it wear away at her this visit, which at least would provide a welcome break from the Church of the Spirit.

As they turned up the furrowed road leading to the farmhouse, William leant in closer to Ellen. ‘I don’t plan to tell them the wedding’s been called off,’ he said in a low voice that she could barely hear over the noise of the cart. ‘They’ll have to find out eventually, but I’d rather not explain it all just yet.’

‘I think that’s very smart of you. But I can’t lie for you, Will. I’m sorry. Not if they ask me directly.’

‘I know. It’d be foolish to hope the subject won’t be raised at all, but perhaps we can try not to linger on the details.’

‘All right; I’ll simply change the topic if I can.’

The road curved sharply to the right and there was the farmhouse in front of them, long and heavy with its broad veranda and low-pitched roof. Beyond it were the out-buildings: the barn and the milking shed and the sagging form of the slab hut built by the farm’s first settlers. By the time the Whitfields took over the farm in 1856, the hut had already been superseded by the big house that Ellen was born in, and since then it had acted as a storehouse for the tools and supplies. The new house was shaded by two beech trees. They were saplings in Ellen’s earliest memories, but now dwarfed the squat building, their branches hoarding a few leaves that would soon add to the carpet of red and gold upon the ground.

At the front door of the farmhouse, Dorothy Whitfield awaited them in silence. As they drew near, Ellen noticed that her mother’s hair had lost the last of its colour since their previous visit, revealing her age far more than could ever be told from her pale, unwrinkled face. You would never guess her a farmer’s wife from her complexion, which remained as creamy as it had been when she left London. This she had achieved with assiduous use of bonnets and parasols and an almost complete avoidance of outdoor chores.

‘Mother,’ Ellen greeted her, holding out her arms. Her mother embraced her stiffly, then stepped out of reach.

William never forced things the way Ellen did, but bent to kiss Dorothy’s cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Mother. It’s good to see you.’

Liar , Ellen thought. ‘Yes, happy birthday,’ she echoed.

‘Just a day like any other,’ her mother said, as though there had been no expectation that her children should visit. ‘Come on, then. You might as well bring your bags in.’

Neither had brought much with them for a single night away; if they had set out from the cottage as usual, they would have made do with one bag. As it was, Ellen had packed a few things at the house in East Melbourne and had met William at the railway station.

She had expected the announcement of her weekend away to meet with more disapproval after the excitement with Sarah’s husband; it had been clear that neither Caroline nor her congregants approved of Sarah returning to him. Did they consider a tie to a sibling less significant, or was it simply that Ellen was less important to them than true believers like Sarah and Harriet? The fact that she had been allowed to leave without the slightest challenge made her feel oddly melancholy.

She had not yet told William about the seance. It hadn’t seemed right on the train, and less so during the short ride from the station. Now, Ellen wondered whether she could bear to speak of it at all. The farm had its own ghosts; why unleash any more?

She took her things to her childhood bedroom, where a towel and fresh water awaited her. As she washed away the dirt of the journey, she could feel the close air of the room pressing in on her and, as soon as she had dried herself, she opened the narrow window in the hope of letting in a breeze.

The ceiling followed the roofline downwards: at its highest at the wall that held the fireplace and descending at so sharp an angle that Ellen was unable to stand upright within three feet of the outside wall. This, along with the lack of ventilation, had always made the room stifling in summer.

It might have been better if it weren’t so overstuffed with furniture, but Dorothy had insisted on both beds remaining, along with Bella’s long-abandoned toys. The dusty doll’s house did little to help Ellen breathe more easily. She could hardly bear to look at it nearly two decades later; she didn’t know how she had lived beside it for eight years without losing her mind.

When she joined her mother and William in the parlour, somewhat tidier if not particularly refreshed, her mother was in the middle of a rambling story about a neighbour Ellen had never met. She took a seat on the sofa next to her brother and sat in silence until the tale reached an unsatisfying end.

‘But that’s enough about that,’ concluded her mother. ‘You must tell me about the wedding preparations. Progressing well, I hope?’

William exchanged a glance with Ellen. ‘Not…not as such, no.’

It was all Ellen could do not to roll her eyes. She should have known William would falter with their mother’s cool gaze upon him. William always went to pieces at the smallest challenge and ended up blurting out the truth.

‘Harriet’s still in mourning,’ she said before her mother could question him. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate to plan things out precisely before the year is up.’

‘I suppose you’re right. I hope she realises how lucky she is to find a man who’s willing to wait. Many wouldn’t, you know.’

William was better able to reply to that statement. ‘No good man would consider any other path.’

Their mother looked far from convinced. ‘She’s still living on her own, I suppose. If you ask me, that’s inappropriate for a girl of her age.’

‘Actually, she’s living with Ellen.’

Thanks a lot, Will , Ellen grumbled internally, but she flashed a cheerful smile at her mother. ‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t remember you saying so in any of your letters.’

‘It’s a recent change. She needed a friend and Will is perfectly capable of managing on his own.’

‘Well, if you’re certain…’ Dorothy’s displeasure was clear but Ellen was accustomed to her mother’s disappointment.

‘I’m certain,’ she said brightly. ‘I can pass on your well wishes, if you like.’

Dorothy made a noncommittal sound and moved on to another piece of local gossip. William sank back against the sofa cushions, the relief that emanated from him so palpable that Ellen thought he was lucky their mother did not know him well enough to see it. On occasion, the distance between them proved useful. She despised it all the same.

Edgar Whitfield joined them for the evening meal. Ellen had thought he might come in to greet them, but he had remained absent all afternoon. Her father had aged too, she realised. He would turn sixty in the spring and his steel-grey hair had begun to recede at the temples. The lines that once had emerged when he was squinting or frowning were now permanently etched upon his sun-worn face. Even his similarity to William, once remarked upon by everyone, was waning. The features were still the same, of course—the straight nose, the strong chin—but William’s face was kind and open, whereas Edgar’s had become hardened. Ellen couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him smile.

‘Cows are restless today,’ was the first thing he said to them. ‘Must be a storm in the air.’

William was adept at remaining within his father’s conversational boundaries. ‘As long as it waits until we’re gone.’

Edgar grunted his agreement. ‘Road to the station’s a menace when it’s wet.’

He wasn’t exaggerating. The road to Yarragon was little more than a track at the best of times, and heavy rain turned it into a clay mire cut through with muddy rivulets. When it was particularly bad, there was no hope of a cart travelling more than a few yards without becoming bogged. Ellen had braved it once on horseback and shuddered at the thought of doing so again. She was a capable rider and not easily daunted, but there was too great a chance of a horse stumbling and breaking its leg.

‘We’re not due to take the train back until after lunch tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I could help with the morning milking.’

‘No need,’ her father replied. ‘I pay good money to those idlers to do the job for me.’

‘I thought we might spend some time together,’ she persisted.

‘We’re doing that now, aren’t we?’

One day, Ellen told herself, she would stop attempting to improve her relationship with her parents. She knew she would be much happier for it. In Melbourne she could allow herself to believe that she’d already reached that point; it was easier to make light of the criticism and the awful silences when she was joking with Will in their own cosy parlour; here it was as if she reverted to her fourteen-year-old self, doing all she could to make her parents smile again. For the first few years after Bella’s death, Ellen had been polite and obedient and had tried to anticipate all that might be asked of her. When that only resulted in the same cool distance, she became rude and wilful, often staying out in the paddocks long after nightfall, but that drew no more attention than her attempts at being faultlessly good. If she’d been a different sort of girl, the consequences of her year of wild behaviour might have been more scandalous but, as her mother said some time later, ‘At least you never ran after the boys.’ Given how much Dorothy lamented her daughter’s spinsterhood, Ellen thought she probably would have preferred at least a small amount of chasing.

The rest of the meal proceeded much as it had begun and, by the time it was over, Ellen felt like she might scream if she had to sit through more of that oppressive quiet. As soon as her mother suggested they retire to the parlour, Ellen announced a desperate need to stretch her legs. It was no lie—she had been sitting all day and her calves were tight and twitchy from the lack of movement.

Dorothy insisted that William should accompany her, ‘just in case’.

Unsure what awful contingency her mother anticipated in a garden miles from the nearest village, Ellen shrugged. After all, it was not William whose company she wished to escape.

‘Shall we see if the apples are ready?’ she asked him, and began walking before he had the chance to reply.

The orchard had provided the setting for many of their conversations over the years. Far enough from the house to allow for free speaking and in the opposite direction from the waterhole, it also had a friendliness to it that was lacking in many other parts of the farm. Ellen and William had seen the trees grow alongside them, offering stout limbs to be climbed and dense canopies to hide within when they wished to dodge chores. Now, they were dressed in the ripe fruits of winter and the siblings were forced to step carefully in the darkness in case they tripped upon a fallen apple.

‘Thanks for helping with the wedding talk,’ William said once they were a sufficient distance from the house. ‘I should have known it would be all she cared about.’

‘Best to let her believe it’s happening for as long as possible. Otherwise she’ll start bemoaning her poor bachelor son as much as her unmarriageable daughter.’

‘Perhaps it’s time I took on some of the burden.’ He sighed. ‘Then again, at some point I’ll have little choice. She won’t believe me if I tell her it’s been postponed once the period of mourning is over.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that, Will. I know Harriet feels as she always has towards you. It’s only duty to her mother that keeps her away. I just need some proof to show her …’

‘You don’t sound as confident as you did in the beginning. Perhaps there isn’t any to be found.’

‘There has to be!’ Ellen’s tone was more fervent than she had intended. ‘It can’t be true and if it’s not true, there must be a way to prove it.’

William stopped walking and turned to her. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

For a moment, she contemplated silence. But it would only postpone the conversation they had to have. ‘Last weekend, at the seance, Caroline brought forth a new spirit—or, at least, she posed as one.’ She fell silent. How could she describe what had happened and how it had affected her without him thinking she had lost her mind?

‘And?’ William pressed.

‘It was Bella, Will,’ she blurted and, as soon as the words crossed her lips, she felt lighter. William would find the fault in it, she realised. He had always been a voice of reason, a calming presence when her thoughts were frantic. She should have told him immediately instead of keeping the hope and terror inside her.

He was quiet for a while, then said, ‘I suppose that was inevitable.’

‘Inevitable? It was awful. A violation. I can only assume they found out about her by eavesdropping.’

‘I’m surprised there was anything to hear. You usually refuse to speak of her.’

‘Harriet mentioned her a few times in passing. Grace must have worked everything out from that.’

‘Grace?’

‘Caroline’s daughter. She dislikes me enough to do it and it makes sense that she’d be the eyes and ears for her mother.’

‘And everything this spirit said was something you’d said to Harriet?’

‘I…’ She grimaced. It was the very thing that she had been asking herself since the seance. ‘No. I only wish it were.’

William fell silent again. Prince had returned from his wandering and Ellen bent to stroke him, as much for her benefit as for his. A twig had become tangled in his fur and she concentrated on removing it so that she wouldn’t have to wonder what her brother was thinking.

Finally he spoke again. ‘Might it truly have been Bella?’

‘Oh, not you too!’ she snapped. ‘You’re meant to be the sensible one. There’s no such thing as spirits!’

‘Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?’

And with that, the last of her resistance faltered. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, despising the fragile sound of her voice.

‘Would it be so terrible if it was Bella?’

She shook her head. ‘It would be wonderful.’

‘But?’

‘But I can’t believe it, Will. If I believed and it wasn’t her…I don’t think I could bear it.’

‘And yet you’re determined to prove Harriet wrong.’

It was nothing she had not already considered over the past week, but hearing it from William was harder. Ellen felt a rush of shame. Had she been acting so selfishly? She had felt so certain that unmasking Caroline would provide the best outcome for Harriet, but what if William had been right? What if Harriet was truly happier with lies than she could ever be knowing the truth?

‘I just want everything to be as it was,’ she said.

‘It’s a nice thought,’ William admitted, ‘but that’s all it can be. Maybe it’s time you came back home.’

She had to admit the idea was tempting. But if she left the house now—if she left Caroline—Ellen knew she would never be rid of that one torturous question. Was it truly Bella? * The Church of the Spirit gladly welcomed Ellen back into the fold upon her return from Gippsland. She arrived at the house not long before sunset, her hair and dress the worse for a long train journey and the storm that broke as she left the station. Ellen was just relieved that the downpour had not reached the farm before she and William had the chance to escape.

And escape was exactly what it had felt like—what it felt like every time. Each visit left Ellen ashamed and exhausted because no matter how dutiful she might be, she knew now that she would always be found lacking. When she had lost Bella, she had also lost her warm, affectionate parents. They seemed so unreal now that if she had not had William to verify the facts, Ellen would likely have dismissed her memories as fiction. But no—it was true that her mother and father had once loved her. Until her actions stole away their ability to love at all.

The church members may not have loved her, either, but at least they made Ellen feel like she was wanted in their home. The meeting that morning had not been the same without her, she was told four separate times. First by Harriet, whose words Ellen dismissed as the usual flattery that accompanied friendship, but not long afterwards Margaret, then Annie, pulled Ellen aside to say much the same thing. Finally Caroline herself came to Ellen when she was slumped in the drawing room, trying to muster the energy to run through a few piano scales.

‘You look as if you’re about to fall asleep,’ Caroline said, taking a seat facing Ellen.

‘I always find train rides tiring.’ The journey was never as tiring as the time spent with her parents, but Caroline didn’t need to know that.

‘The noise alone is terrible,’ Caroline agreed. ‘I should hate to make such a long journey more than once a year.’

‘I would gladly extend the time between visits, but…’ Ellen shrugged. ‘You know how parents can be.’

‘I’m sure Grace would echo your complaints.’

‘She’s very devoted to you.’

Caroline smiled. ‘Yes. I’m lucky to have her. When we first arrived in Sydney, she was barely five years old, and even then she tried to look after me.’

‘It must have been difficult for you both. Losing your husband, I mean.’

‘It was.’ Caroline’s bright eyes grew clouded, as if they were seeing not the drawing room, but another place and a long-ago time. ‘Of course, our loss was only temporary.’

‘Is he not still lost to you, then? You seem to remember nothing of what occurs when you’re in a trance.’

Caroline’s attention was fully back with Ellen now, although her expression was too complicated for Ellen to read. ‘That’s true. And it’s true, also, that he speaks more clearly through me than he does to me. But he is with me always… and he’s rather fond of the talking board. The planchette requires much less of me than the seance does.’

Ellen couldn’t keep the frown from her face.

‘I’m sorry you had such a bad first experience,’ Caroline said, perceptive as always. ‘It’s rare that a novice achieves such a clear response. As much as it troubles you to think of it, you do have an unusual talent. Raw, yes, but if you were to develop it…’

‘I don’t entirely understand what you mean by talent.’

‘Some people have a natural affinity with the spirits. For many, it will never make itself known beyond the occasional prescient thought or unlearnt scrap of knowledge. But for those who are guided onto the path of spiritualism, the affinity may mark them out as a medium. Or if not a medium, one whose energies are particularly conducive to drawing the spirits near. You, I believe, are the latter, although with practice you might hone your abilities into something you can control.’

Ellen was not immune to flattery and it was gratifying to hear someone speak of her in terms such as ‘unusual talent’ and ‘natural affinity’, especially after a weekend with her mother. She had experienced nothing to indicate, however, that there was any truth behind Caroline’s words. At no point in her life had she felt as if anything but her own intelligence was guiding her actions and thoughts. Even in the house, she felt a remove from the true believers who professed to see and feel things that Ellen could not.

‘You are kind,’ she said, ‘but I fear I’m remarkably ordinary in this and in every other way.’

‘If you had seen the difference between this morning’s seance and those you’ve taken part in, you wouldn’t be so quick to deny your influence.’ Caroline smiled. ‘But I shan’t press you on the matter. How was your trip to the countryside? I hope you found your parents well.’

‘They were both in robust health, thank you.’

‘Will you visit again soon, do you think?’

‘It’s a long journey,’ Ellen said, for the sake of avoiding a more telling reply.

Caroline understood her meaning perfectly, however, judging from her satisfied smile.

There was much excitement in the house the following Wednesday. A letter had arrived for Frances, sent by an aunt she had never met. It was only now that Ellen learned of Frances’ history prior to joining the Church of the Spirit. She had known only that Frances was an orphan, and completely friendless until she attended an early public meeting of the church. Soon afterwards, Margaret had offered her a room and Caroline had become like a second mother to her—although naturally her true mother could never be replaced. But there was more to her story, as it turned out.

‘I knew I had an aunt, of course,’ Frances was saying when Ellen joined the group that had gathered in the parlour. ‘An uncle, too. But for all I knew, they were long dead.’

‘Do they live abroad?’ Harriet asked. She clearly knew no more of Frances’ situation than Ellen did, and appeared to be as confused as Ellen about the evident tension in the room.

‘Apparently not.’ Frances glanced at the letter she held in one hand. ‘Castlemaine, this says. Which means she was nearby, all my childhood, and not once did she try to meet me or my brothers.’

‘You have brothers?’ Ellen asked, surprised. Frances had never mentioned them.

‘Over in the west,’ she said. ‘Gold mining’s in our blood.’

Ellen couldn’t help but smile. ‘You don’t look like a miner,’ she said, nodding at Frances’ dress. Although not as ornate as Adelaide’s seemingly endless supply of dresses, it was cut from plush velvet and beautifully tailored—not at all the sort of thing that Ellen imagined miners’ wives might wear.

‘Not there, perhaps, but here…’ Frances gestured towards her face. Seeing that Ellen was still at a loss she explained, ‘My father was Chinese. My surname, Amoy, was my mother’s attempt to distance us from what people here called my father—Ah Moy.’

Now that Frances had explained, Ellen could see that certain of her features might evince her heritage if one was looking for signs. The glossy black hair and dark brown eyes that Ellen had often admired might well be a gift from Frances’ father. Ellen had always considered Frances pretty in an uncommon kind of way, but had thought nothing of it.

‘And your aunt?’ Harriet asked, saving Ellen from further revealing her own ignorance. ‘Is she your father’s sister, or your mother’s?’

Frances laughed, but the sound was bitter, nothing like the gleeful giggle that Ellen had so often heard from her. ‘My mother’s, of course. Not that she’d admit it. She disowned Mum when she took up with Bàba; all of them did. Couldn’t bear the thought of her having children who didn’t look just like them.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said. ‘That’s terrible.’

Ellen nodded her agreement. Her own parents would react no differently. She wondered how she would have responded herself if William had chosen a Chinese woman or an Indian for a wife, and a small, shamed part of her knew she was not entirely above caring what the neighbours thought.

‘The absolute nerve of her,’ Margaret said now, her tone and expression bringing to mind an image of a hissing cat. ‘Contacting you now, after all this time. She could have written when your poor mother was widowed with three children to feed, or when your ma—her own sister!—died, leaving you on your own. She might’ve actually done some good, then. But this? It serves only herself.’

‘She says in her letter that she only recently learned of my mother’s death and that it has taken her some time to find me.’

‘How did she find you?’ Grace surprised Ellen by speaking. She was sitting in a chair tucked into the very corner of the parlour and had appeared to be reading all the time they had been talking. She must have been following the conversation closely, however, because her brow was furrowed and her expression concerned. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of people snooping about the neighbourhood.’

No, you wouldn’t want anyone watching you too closely , Ellen thought, noting the look Grace exchanged with her mother. They might uncover some of your tricks .

‘Oh, it wasn’t anything like that,’ Frances said. ‘There was a woman who came to a meeting several weeks ago. A friend of my aunt, apparently, not that I knew it at the time. They got to talking and I suppose they worked it all out from there.’

Grace still looked uncomfortable. ‘And you are certain this person is your aunt? If you’ve never met her…’

‘She knows things about my mother…Well, I’m as certain as I can be until I speak with her in person.’

‘Surely you don’t mean to do as she asks,’ Margaret spluttered. ‘After the way she treated your mother! She’ll have a reason for writing to you now, and I’d warrant it has something to do with your inheritance.’

Ellen saw the hope drain from Frances’ face. ‘Is it so unlikely that she might regret her past actions and wish to make amends?’

Margaret’s brief humph of derision showed what she thought of that possibility.

‘Why don’t you ask the spirits, dear?’ Mrs Rutherford paused the rhythmic click of her knitting when she spoke. The room felt quieter and less lively without the sound.

All turned to Caroline. Now that Mrs Rutherford had mentioned the possibility, it seemed odd to Ellen that no one had thought of it before. After all, spirit messages controlled most of the household’s decisions, from Harriet’s broken engagement right down to a joint of beef that had been discarded due to a spirit’s warning that it would make the congregation ill. Frances was one of the longest-standing church members; Ellen would have thought she in particular would have thought first of the spirits upon receiving her letter. Unless…Perhaps those past incidents were exactly why Frances had not wanted to discuss the matter with her late mother. If she didn’t ask, she couldn’t be given an answer she didn’t wish to hear.

‘We could try the talking board, I suppose.’ Caroline seemed less than enthusiastic. ‘A full seance would be preferable, but one can never guarantee that a particular spirit will approach.’

‘Is it different with the talking board?’ Ellen asked, genuinely interested in the reply.

‘It’s less reliable. But if the conditions are wrong or the spirit lacks the power to communicate, the failure takes nothing from the medium. An unsuccessful seance might drain my energies so greatly that it would be days before I could try again.’

‘Whereas you could try again immediately with the talking board?’

‘Perhaps not immediately.’ Caroline smiled. ‘In a few hours, or with different fingers on the planchette…’

‘The talking board, then.’ Margaret spoke as forcibly as if it were she who required the spirits’ counsel, and not Frances.

‘Not with so many in the room.’ Caroline looked to Frances. ‘We can try in the drawing room, if you like.’

Frances chewed her lower lip, clearly hesitant. ‘All right,’ she said finally and then, to Ellen’s surprise, added, ‘but I’d like Ellen there too. If you don’t mind, Ellen?’

Ellen did mind. The last time had pitched her into disarray, and the thought of placing her fingertip on the planchette again frightened her. She didn’t think she could bear it if it spelt Bella’s name out again. She knew that she would have to come to terms with it all eventually—what happened, yes, but also what it might mean—but she was not yet ready. She looked to Caroline for reassurance that the previous incident would not be repeated. Strangely, it was Grace who noticed her anxious look.

‘Spirits won’t speak to you through the talking board unless you invite them,’ she said. ‘What happened the last time was possible only because Adelaide called to any spirit in the vicinity. Which, by the way, was an extremely dangerous thing to do, and Adelaide should have known better.’

Frances looked sheepish. ‘It doesn’t usually work at all without Caroline,’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting anything to happen that day.’ She turned back to Ellen. ‘That’s why I’d like you to help this time. I think the spirits like you. They’re always more active when you’re around.’

Ellen wasn’t sure she liked the thought of that, but Grace’s explanation had helped allay the worst of her fears and Frances had been a good friend to her since her arrival at the house. It was not such a big thing to ask.

Harriet gave her a reassuring smile as Ellen followed Frances and Caroline from the room. Margaret left with them, but disappeared moments afterwards and did not rejoin them until Ellen and Frances had drawn an occasional table and two chairs close to one of the sofas. The reason for her absence was immediately made clear by the wooden board that she held before her as if a priceless vase was balanced on it instead of a simple carved planchette. Ellen thought she might leave once she had set the talking board upon the table, but instead she took a seat next to Caroline on the sofa, arranging her skirts as though she planned to stay there for some time. Neither Caroline nor Frances looked surprised, so Ellen assumed it was typical for Margaret to join in. It struck her, then, how strange it was that she herself should be included in the group. Margaret and Frances had been church stalwarts since almost the beginning of Caroline’s ministry in Melbourne, whereas Ellen was new and increasingly confused about her reasons for remaining. What could she possibly contribute?

‘Fingers on the planchette,’ Caroline directed them.

Ellen felt her heart jump within her chest. It’s safe , she told herself, but her speeding pulse took no notice. She had to slide her chair a little closer to the table so that both of her index fingers could comfortably rest upon the board. Doing so brought her to within inches of Frances, and she could hear the rush of her breath. The younger woman had her lip between her teeth again, gnawing it so fiercely that Ellen feared she would draw blood.

Caroline waited until everyone had ceased their fidgeting and then called, in a sonorous tone, ‘Lord, we assemble here as your servants. Grant us your gift of communication, so that we might speak to those across the veil.’ She paused for a moment, then closed her eyes before continuing. ‘Maria Amoy, mother of Frances, we reach out to you. If you are near, draw closer. If you are here, give us a sign.’

Immediately, the planchette slid across the board and stilled only when it reached the painted YES .

‘Mama,’ Frances whispered. The planchette quivered but remained where it was.

‘Who are you, spirit?’

Ellen was surprised—and not a little unnerved—to hear Caroline’s question after what Grace had said earlier. If she had spoken falsely, her mother would have corrected her, however, and Ellen supposed that it made sense to confirm that the movement was truly the work of the particular spirit they had called. The lack of certainty sat uneasily with her. She would never have agreed to this if she had thought there was a chance, no matter how slight, that a spirit other than Frances’ mother might respond.

It was all she could do to keep her fingertips upon the planchette as it began to move. The path it took was smooth and confident, but Ellen could feel no force that might be attributed to one of the other women. It traversed the board evenly, regardless of the direction it took: a feat that would be difficult to achieve through human interference. Ellen’s apprehension faded a little as the planchette passed the letter B without pausing. Slowly, it slid from letter to letter, providing the awaited response: M A R I A .

‘Thank you for joining us, Maria,’ Caroline said, her tone as casual as if she were greeting a friend or neighbour instead of a woman who was several years dead. ‘Frances has received a letter from your sister and would appreciate your counsel.’ She nodded to Frances, encouraging her to proceed.

She did so after a quick glance about the room, hoping no doubt for a visual sign of her mother’s presence. ‘Mama? Aunt Lydia wrote a letter asking to meet me. She said she wants to make amends for the way she treated you and for not contacting me until now. I…I’d like to see her, I think. I’ve no one else, with the boys over in the west and, well, people change, don’t they? It doesn’t seem right to judge her for things she did more than twenty years ago.’

‘Well. The initial choice might have been made back then, but she chose it again every day she didn’t beg forgiveness from your mother.’

Caroline turned the full power of her blue eyes upon Margaret in a steady gaze that Ellen could interpret only as a warning for her to hush and allow Frances to guide the session. She thought Margaret had a point, however. She understood why Frances might be willing to overlook her aunt’s prior behaviour, but it was not nearly as far in the past as Frances was making it out to be. If the woman had changed, it was a recent transformation.

‘What should I do, Mama?’ Frances went on as if Margaret had not spoken. Her fingers were trembling where they rested on the planchette. ‘Would you be angry if I met with her as she’s asked?’

The planchette remained still for so long that Ellen began to wonder whether the spirit had departed—allowing, of course, that it had ever been with them at all. Finally, however, it began to move: slowly at first and then progressively faster until it was all Ellen could do to keep up with the letters being spelt.

BE CAREFUL , the message read. LYDIA CARES ONLY FOR HERSELF. WHY NOW AND NOT BEFORE?

Frances spoke each word aloud as the planchette moved between the letters, pausing only momentarily to indicate the end of one word and the beginning of the next. When the motion ceased, she also fell silent, her expression unreadable as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth. After a full minute or more had passed, she responded. ‘Would it be so terrible if I were to speak with her? If she is only interested in the money Bàba left to me, I can refuse to see her again.’

Before Frances had even finished speaking, the planchette jerked across the board to the word YES . It remained there for several seconds before spelling: STAY AWAY. SHE WILL HURT YOU AS SHE HURT ME .

‘I…Yes, Mama.’ Ellen could see the glint of unshed tears in Frances’ eyes. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you, Maria,’ Caroline added. ‘Only the most devoted mother would continue to protect her babies after passing from this world. Is there anything else you would like to tell us?’

The planchette jerked so violently towards the YES that Ellen’s right finger momentarily slipped from its surface. The loss of its pressure did not seem to hinder the spirit’s control of the planchette, however, as it quickly indicated five further letters.

‘Proud,’ Frances breathed.

The planchette lingered on the D for a moment longer, then slid downwards to alight on the painted GOODBYE .

No one moved until Caroline let her fingers slip from the planchette to the board beneath it. Taking that as her cue that the session was over, Ellen rolled her aching shoulders and rubbed a kink from her back. Frances was the last to draw back from the talking board; she scrubbed at her face until the dampness upon her cheeks was gone. Caroline showed little of the exhaustion that was so evident following a seance. She had paled a little, but her eyes remained bright and intelligent, and she sat straight-backed upon the sofa instead of falling back upon the cushions for support. Margaret, too, looked well, although the strain of extending her arms for so long could not have been easy for a woman of her age.

Ellen, however, felt as though she could sleep for several days. The tension of awaiting each slow answer and fearing every time that the planchette might stray to the letters of Bella’s name had exacted a toll from her body as well as from her mind. Frances, she saw, was similarly affected. Her dark eyes were shadowed and she was slumped forward in her chair like a marionette with loosened strings.

‘I’m sorry, Frances.’ Caroline’s sad expression seemed genuine.

‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ Margaret said. ‘Better to hear it from her mother who loves her than to find it out the hard way.’

‘She’s right.’ Frances’ voice was weak but her words were sure. ‘My aunt isn’t family; you are. You all are.’

‘And we’re glad to have you,’ Margaret said. ‘We’d miss you if you ever left.’

‘It seems that’s unlikely.’ Frances smiled but Ellen saw only sadness on her face.