Ambrose Richardson rose so smoothly and quickly at Edney’s appearance that she felt she had conjured his lithe, white form from the shadows with the urgency of her need.
“Dear lady,” he said and took her hands in his. Edney looked down, away from his blue eyes, the colour of a robin’s egg, and into his graceful, long-fingered hand. She could not help but stare again at the one sleeve of his pale linen suit so neatly pinned over the place of his wound and then up at his lean, softly smiling face. Quickly, she looked down again. Could the warmth of his palm be the result of its singularity? Her hands seemed to have formed a prayer around a candle. She opened her mouth to plead for his consolation; he would know that she had meant no such wickedness. They had last spoken before Louisa fell ill. May had felt so distant then, even in her closeness. Edney could not reach her. Now she feared she had done so at a terrible cost. But he would understand, for had he not spoken of his own hatred of God and all Creation at the death of his boy?
But before Edney could speak, Ambrose Richardson turned her to the lamplit corner where two figures stood motionless. One detached itself from the other and approached with a feathery step.
Ambrose Richardson spoke just as gently. “Mrs. Lansdowne, may I introduce Miss Elizabeth d’Espereaux of Victoria.” With a slight bow, he released Edney’s hands and stepped back.
Edney was not accustomed to seeing such youth and beauty in her sex; even May, had she grown to full womanhood, would not have rivalled this woman’s physical charm. Elizabeth d’Espereaux was perhaps three and twenty, at once winsome and strong, her brown eyes alive with points of light, her features small and exquisitely formed, the skin at her throat white as fresh cream and set off by a thin collar of small purple jewels. Her black hair was bobbed and formed two smooth identical waves that drew attention to her smile, which was gentle and even. Had God wanted Eve to walk again on the earth, Edney did not think he would have had to do more than remove the fine silk dress that covered this young woman’s modesty. Her voice, it was no surprise to learn, had a brooklike trill.
“Madam, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, even under these trying circumstances. Ambrose has told me of your sorrows, but even his powers of expression could not convey the full impact of what is here.” She raised her nose and daintily sniffed. “Your daughter’s aura is as strong as any I’ve ever encountered. She must have an urgent need to contact you.”
Edney, however, could sense nothing but cigar smoke. It swirled in gouts behind Miss d’Espereaux as a thick, burly figure emerged from it. This turned out to be a man of about thirty years, brown-suited, his face as rough hewn as the young woman’s was delicate. He sported untrimmed ginger sideburns and his cheeks were badly pockmarked, but there shone the same quick light in his eyes, though they were small and set deep in his chiselled face.
Miss d’Espereaux introduced the man as Mr. Collins, her assistant, then said, “Is not the aura of unusual strength, Francis?”
“I have never known the like before,” he said enthusiastically and nodded at Edney. Then he resumed puffing on his cigar.
Ambrose Richardson cleared his throat pointedly, but the man ignored him. Miss d’Espereaux hastened to continue.
“She must have been very close to her sister. I believe it’s the younger girl who lies ill upstairs?”
“Louisa,” Edney said and could not keep the tears from her eyes.
“Yes. Louisa. It is she who holds the veil. In her presence, I have every confidence, madam, that we will be able to lift it.”
Ambrose Richardson asked if they might be allowed to go to Louisa.
“Go to her?” Mary said. The lines on her brow and at the edges of her mouth deepened. “What do you mean to do?”
Miss d’Espereaux smiled and lightly fingered the jewels at her throat.
“Yes. The portal will be widest in Louisa’s presence. It’s a rare thing, in my experience, to have a spirit so close and in so much need of contact. Your daughter, Mrs. Lansdowne, must love you greatly.”
Edney’s tears were heavy, but they would not fall from her eyes. She could hardly keep her own daughters separate. But why should a mother’s love for her children be divided by their bodies and souls? A family was but a single child, after all.
Mary turned her anxious gaze to the American gentleman. She seemed to be fading in the swirls of cigar smoke.
“Louisa is very ill. I don’t know that it’s wise for you to…”
“Dearest lady,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. I personally guarantee that no harm will come to the child. On my honour.” With the same watery blue gaze to which Edney had become accustomed, he addressed her, his voice as tender and modest as a man’s could be. “Edney, I implore you, hard though it seems, you must try to recognize in this affliction a rare opportunity. Miss d’Espereaux and I have discussed this matter at some length, and she shares my feeling that your lost daughter is using the illness to expedite contact. It has been known before. The boundary between life and death is more fragile than we dream. If we but lift the veil and let her speak, I am certain the illness will release its hold upon the child. Miss d’Espereaux is a most expert spirit healer.”
This gentle yet impassioned speech was abruptly followed by a gruff voice from the corner.
“It’s the Lord’s gospel, ma’am. One time Lizzie removed a lady’s tumour all the way in Australia.”
Miss d’Espereaux smiled thinly. “Thank you, Francis. But Mrs. Lansdowne does not require a history of our successes.” She paused and floated closer. Edney could smell violets through the smoke. The young woman’s face was blurring with mercy. She took Edney’s hands in hers. “Will you trust me? Shall we go up to them now?”
“Them? Oh, Edney, I don’t think that Henry—” Mary turned her head rapidly, as if in search of her husband’s guidance. “It is not perhaps quite proper, after all…”
Edney hardly heard Mary’s objections. She felt herself drawn upward by Miss d’Espereaux’s eyes. But she managed to allay her sister-in-law’s concerns.
“It’s fine, Mary. What harm can be done? Dr. Baird said the crisis would come in its own time. And besides, we have Mr. Richardson’s word of honour.”
“No harm but rather a blessing that is not given to many,” Miss d’Espereaux said as she released Edney’s hands. “Your daughter has something she must communicate. We will ease her burden as well as yours. I have never known the spiritual plane to be so close. Mrs. Lansdowne, please, allow me to be your servant.”
Edney had not felt such lightness in months. The sympathy of Ambrose Richardson seemed magnified in this beautiful young woman and was therefore even more to be trusted. With sincere hope, and against Mary’s faltering protestations, Edney led the way out of the parlour and to Louisa’s room.
The child still slept, still burned. She lay in the day’s subsiding light with the rich brine of the tide flowing over her, so that she might have been adrift on the river itself. Edney touched her cheek, lifted a wet strand of hair from her dry lips.