Chapter Eleven, part one

Violet redid her hair before the séance, feeling like a knight donning armor before battle. Her stomach was in a state of nervous upheaval, and it didn’t help that Sadie had skipped off golfing and was missing this whole thing. Violet slid a hairpin along her scalp, reminding herself that Mrs. Voldore was kind. She didn’t mean to upset anyone. And, as Charlie had said, she might still be a quack.

Charlie. She smiled in the mirror as she worked her hair into a psyche knot, laid a white velvet ribbon across the crown of her head, and pinned it at the nape of her neck.

He won’t even see it, you know, she told herself. And don’t pretend he thinks you’re pretty—he doesn’t even know what you look like. He appreciates that you’ve been kind to him, nothing more.

Still, no amount of inner lecturing could keep her from rushing down the steps, arriving early to a gathering she’d been dreading for days. As she’d hoped, Charlie was the only one in the room, seated in the middle of the long table, facing the door.

“Hello again.” She slipped through the door. “It’s Violet.”

“I know,” he said as she moved around to his side of the table. “Your voice is…distinctive.”

He stood and groped for the chair next to his. She waited as he pulled it out.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the seat. Together they managed to get it slid up to the table. He moved away and his hand grazed her shoulder, making it sparkle like a pinwheel.

As the others arrived, Violet’s throat tightened. Alva came, accompanied by the new people: Greta Abernathy, who Violet guessed to be near her own age of 22, was tall and pretty. Gray-haired Mary Clemence arrived all in black. Reggie came, smelling of bourbon. When Helena Voldore flowed through the door in a loose-sleeved tea gown, her hair down her back, she took her seat with some ceremony and asked the staff to close the drapes.

“Make it as dark as you’re able,” she said. “We shall be seeing with our inner eyes and will have no need for light.”

As the room fell into darkness, Violet wondered if it put Charlie at ease to have them all on an equal footing. Though of course the room wasn’t completely black. Alva’s brooch shone dully at the end of the table.

“Let us join hands. And whatever you do, do not let go of the hands of the people sitting beside you or the psychic chain will be broken. Our group is smaller today. We will require the concentration of every last one you to reach across to the other side.”

Violet took Miss Abernathy’s cool, beringed hand. On her left, Charlie slid his hand sideways until he found hers. She swallowed, nervous, pleased, ruffled. He folded his hand around hers and gave it a squeeze. She smiled down at the table and squeezed back.

“Now.” Mrs. Voldore’s voice boomed from the head of the table. “We must all reflect on our dear departed. Fix them in your mind. If you feel a pull toward them, allow yourself to be pulled. Do not resist. We shall fly to the tender bosom of our beloved one, reaching beyond this world, through the film of nothingness, and into the next realm. I shall call out to Fanny, my connection on the other side, and pray that she will answer the summons. Now concentrate. Concentrate!”

The room fell silent. Violet’s parents bloomed in her mind’s eye, just as they were when she saw them last. It was at breakfast. She and Sadie about to leave for Emma Willard after the Christmas break. Both of her parents were reeling with headaches. The heavy blinds were drawn, and Mother was drinking black coffee. Papa had a mixture he swore by that smelled of vinegar and tomatoes. Mother, in her dressing gown, had one hand pressed to her forehead—with the other she reached out for their two hands. Violet, who was still bristling from their latest quarrel, received a quick squeeze. Sadie had her hand held and was permitted to kiss Mother on the cheek.

“Have a good term, girls,” Papa had said. He embraced them both without leaving his chair. “We’ll bring you back something from London.”

“Heavens, John, not so loud!” their mother had growled. And that was Violet’s last memory of them. Cringing from the light, smelling of juniper berries.

Violet’s breath was coming fast. She tried to calm herself, to concentrate on Charlie beside her and lovely Miss Abernathy on the other side. Miss Abernathy had lost both parents as well, Alva had said, hinting that she and Violet had a great deal in common. But who else, other than Sadie, could understand what Van Waters family life had been like?

Mrs. Voldore’s voice pinned Violet to the present. “Fanny! Fanny! We call upon you to come forth and speak with us!” A moment passed, then Mrs. Voldore whispered, “She comes! I will speak to her.” Another pause. “Fanny? Fanny, my child, it is kind of you to come. We have a particular request of you today. We wish to connect with the beloved dead of our circle, but especially with those who lost their lives when the German torpedo struck the Lusitania one year ago.”

Violet pulled in her breath. So many times, she’d pictured that torpedo, snaking through the black water. It had struck at ten minutes past two in the afternoon, when her parents were probably well past their post-luncheon gin fizzes and into their mid-afternoon libations. Papa would have moved on to a gin Old Fashioned, while Mother might have favored a Half and Half. They always committed to one cocktail for the afternoon and evening. Most days were gin days, but if they were ever tempted into a Manhattan or whiskey sour, then it was whiskey until bed.

“Fanny, are you there? Yes? Excellent. Can you bring together those who lost their lives aboard the Lusitania?”

Gray tension filled the room. The ship had sunk in eighteen minutes. After the torpedo hit, something within the ship exploded and the vessel had begun to keel. Violet envisioned the decks in chaos, sailors racing to and fro with life vests, women snatching up children, all while her parents slowly drained their drinks and considered getting up from their chairs.

“Can you bring together those of the Lusitania?” Mrs. Voldore asked again. “You have? Très bien. Who wishes to speak first?”

“Is Alfie there?” Reggie blurted. “Alfred Vanderbilt?”

“Fanny, is Alfred Vanderbilt there? His brother, Reginald, would like to speak with him.” A lengthy pause. “Yes, he is here.” Something like a sob issued from Reggie. Alva moaned softly. Mrs. Voldore dropped her voice. “Would you like to ask a question?”

“Alfie!” Reggie sniffled loudly. “Were you—were you frightened?”

“Mister Reginald wishes to know whether you were frightened.” Silence followed, then, “Fanny says that Mister Alfred saw the terrible list of the ship and knew right away that there was no saving her. By the time he and his valet reached the deck, many of the lifeboats were being filled. They helped ladies into them. Then there appeared a young mother with a babe in arms who was frantic because she had not been able to find a life vest. Mister Alfred and his valet searched up and down the deck, but there were no more vests to be had. So, Mister Alfred gave her his own and set her off in one of the last lifeboats. After that, he knew that all hope was gone. His valet found some brandy, and they shared it straight from the bottle.”

Violet shivered, though this was not a new story. After the sinking, she’d read every article printed about the dead, the survivors, and those fateful eighteen minutes. This story of Alfred Vanderbilt’s heroics had been widely reported. She also knew that many of the lifeboats sprang leaks and sank out from under their passengers. In such cold seas, even a life vest was no guarantee of safety.

Still, though she’d read the story before in black and white, it was impossible to miss the otherworldly hum circling the edge of the room. Mrs. Voldore’s booming voice seemed to ream straight into Violet’s core, connecting her directly to the shadowy figure of Alfred Vanderbilt. Reggie, at the far end of the table, was weeping. “My uncle George was scheduled to sail,” he managed. “Alfie took his place because George was ill. It wasn’t meant for Alfie to die like this.”

Mrs. Voldore cleared her throat. “Fanny says she has the family of Miss Violet Van Waters.” Violet tensed. “They have a message for Violet. Will you hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother bids you to watch after your sister. She fears for her.”

Violet leaned forward. “What do you fear?”

After a pause, Mrs. Voldore said, “It isn’t clear. Concerns for the future are often murky. Your mother simply says your sister needs you. Fanny cannot get better clarity than that.” Violet’s heart beat four times, loud in her ears. “Do you have another question for your parents?”

Oh, why hadn’t she prepared a question? Her mind flew from the picture of them having drinks to the turmoil on deck as people jockeyed for life vests and boats. Whether they’d managed life vests or not, gotten into lifeboats or not, stayed with their cocktails or not, they had drowned. Whatever had happened, it had ended with water closing over their heads.

She blurted the question that always simmered at the top of her mind.

“Was the water very cold?”

Her voice must have shaken because Charlie squeezed her hand again.

Mrs. Voldore hesitated, then spoke. “Fanny tells me that it was a shock at first, like any ocean bathing, but they very soon felt nothing at all. Hands became numb. Feet became numb. The racing mind slowed and grew very calm. It was like going to sleep.”

Hot tears flowed out of Violet’s eyes. She pressed her lips together and waited, grateful, while Mrs. Voldore moved on to Miss Abernathy, whose parents had been in a lifeboat that sank. Violet was hot and damp all over, tears leaking down her chin, into her collar. Her nose was beginning to run, but she couldn’t drop the hands she held onto. She simply had to be—hot, wet, chest trembling with constrained sobs.

Charlie adjusted his hand, hooking his pinky around her first finger. Slowly, he drew their hands toward his breast pocket, from which he pulled a handkerchief. He pressed it into her hand, then moved his palm out of the way, catching her pinky with his forefinger so she had full rein to use the handkerchief. She brought it to her face and wiped her tears, touched by his gallant gesture.

Violet hated crying in front of others, but she was in good company. By the time the séance ended, nearly every eye was red. Alva had spoken passionately with her nephew. Mary Clemence had a heartbreaking conversation with her husband of forty years. By the time Mrs. Voldore said goodbye to Fanny, thanking her for her service to the living, Violet felt that, as a group, they’d marched through the desert for forty days.

Everyone dropped hands. Mrs. Voldore pushed open the drapes.

“Thank you for your handkerchief,” Violet said, folding it carefully. “You saved the day. I was a sopping mess.”

“It was emotional. Everyone was affected.”

Violet watched Alva and Mrs. Voldore stroll out of the room, arm in arm. “It was, wasn’t it? It’s strange, even though I’m not sure I believe in her…abilities, I was still overcome. I wonder why Alva keeps having us do this? It’s not like it’s pleasant.”

“Not pleasant. But cathartic, maybe?”

“Maybe. What do you suppose she meant, about Sadie? Should I be concerned, do you think?”

Charlie shook his head. “It could mean a million different things. Maybe just a concern that she isn’t fully grown up yet and needs your guidance.”

The sounds of laughter flowed in from the great hall. A moment later, Sadie, the very girl in question, put her face in. “Ah, you’re done! Floyd and I just came back for tennis rackets. Come join us! The tennis club’s a dilly.” She stepped further into the room. She wore her white cotton tennis outfit and white-ribboned hat. “Vi, you look pale as an oyster. These séances make you so blue. You really mustn’t take it to heart. Have you even been outdoors today? It’s gorgeous weather. You know Gran would say you need your constitutional.”

Violet glanced from her sister to Charlie, Mrs. Voldore’s words still hanging in her ear. “Well, I—”

“Don’t feel you have to stay on my account,” Charlie put in quickly. “The change of scene might be nice after all of this.”

Sadie pounced on this. “Yes, a change! Do come. It’s such a splendid day.” She reached for Violet’s hand and pulled her up from the table. “Come on. We’ll get your hat.”

Violet turned to Charlie. “Will you come?”

“Oh, no, not me. I’m happiest here.”

Violet let Sadie lead her out of the room. As they made their way to the stairs, Sadie leaned in and whispered, “You’ll wither up if you keep palling around with him all day. He never goes out, have you noticed? I mean, poor fellow. But still, it’s grim.”