Nina Coombs Pykare (12 page)

The house having been reached, they ascended the stairs to the third floor where Jennifer saw the children duly fed, bathed, and settled for the night and with a heavy heart dressed for her own dinner.

It was not a meal she could contemplate with any pleasure. She did not like Ingle-ton’s company and that of Dupin made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Lady Carolyn and Lord Proctor had neither addressed a single word to her and obviously felt her quite beneath their touch. Mrs. Parthemer was entirely wrapped up in the French-man’s promises and, in any event, was not a good conversationalist. Mrs. Parsons, though undoubtedly a good-natured soul, was given to spouting such a flow of incessant chatter that even the thought of it gave Jennifer the beginning of a headache.

  Of all the persons soon to be assembled in the dining hall, Mr. Parthemer was the only one in whose presence Jennifer could expect any sense of comfort. And he, of course, would be not much given to con-versation. Her short stay at Seven Elms had been quite long enough for her to discover that Mr. Parthemer was a man to whom food was of vital importance. And when he was engaged in refueling he did not desire to be interrupted by any chatter, foolish or otherwise.

With another sigh, Jennifer turned from the reflection of herself in the cheval glass. With the feelings of someone on the way to discharge a very irksome duty, she made her way toward the stairs.

Chapter Eight

The dinner was just as bad as Jennifer had felt it would be, but it did finally end. That, however, did not raise her spirits in the least. For Mrs. Parthemer, having left her guests to their own devices through the day, now insisted that they must all adjourn to the Red Room where Monsieur Dupin was to offer further demonstrations of his healing talents. Lady Carolyn was seen to shiver a little and lean rather more heavily upon the arm of Ingleton. Mr. Par-themer sought to evade his wife’s eye and make his escape through the incongruous French doors into the garden, but she was too swift for him. “Mr. Parthemer, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, m’dear. Nothing at all. Just getting a breath of air.”

Mrs. Parthemer, taking her husband’s arm so as to avoid any further attempts at escape, marshalled the rest of them. “You must come, too, Miss Whitcomb,” she said. “Monsieur Dupin has specifically asked for you. Though I’m sure I don’t know why.”

  Jennifer, feeling a tremor of terror, strove to hide it. She was about to say that she, too, did not know why Dupin should have asked for her, but Mrs. Parthemer had already passed on. Her guests followed demurely in her wake, none of them ven-turing to go against her wishes.

The Red Room was as it had been the night before. The curtains had all been drawn. A few scattered candles cast a dim flickering light over the tubs. Masses of fresh-cut flowers sent forth a heavy, cloy-ing fragrance. But this time the chairs were not clustered around the tubs, but were set in a semicircle with two chairs facing each other in the middle.

Monsieur Dupin’s blackclad figure di-rected each person to a particular chair. As Jennifer waited, her heart pounding in her throat, the others were all seated. The only chairs remaining were those in the middle of the circle. When Dupin motioned her to one of them, she could not stop her-self from drawing back somewhat. “I have no ailments,” she protested. “I do not need help.”

Monsieur  Dupin looked at Mrs. Par-themer. “Miss Whitcomb,” said her employer, “I insist. Come, Monsieur Dupin is waiting.”

  Jennifer, knowing further protest would be useless, took her place on the chair and with trepidation faced Monsieur Dupin as he settled across from her. He hitched his chair closer to hers and enclosed her knees within his own. She was about to protest again, when Monsieur Dupin said calmly, “This is the way we prepare the patient for the fluid. I will touch Miss Whitcomb in various places, seeking her poles. Generally the fingers and nose are considered stable. The head and feet, however, are not so stable.”

Jennifer felt herself quivering as the man’s hands touched her. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out as he captured her hands in his. “You must look into my eyes.”

Again Jennifer longed to protest, but there was no one in the room to whom she could appeal for help. She would have to face Monsieur Dupin and her fear by herself.

  “You must look into my eyes,” he repeat-ed, and obediently Jennifer raised her eyes to his. In the dim light of the flickering candles his eyes were like two black pools. They drew her, as a black pool at midnight might draw a person unaware into its dangerous depths. But just as she felt herself sinking helplessly into those depths, just as she felt herself surrender-ing her will and her power, she made a last supreme effort and summoned the vision of another whose smiling grey eyes were flecked with brown. Her terror and her helplessness faded together while Jennifer, her mind’s eye firmly fixed on the remem-bered features of Viscount Haverford, continued to gaze obediently at Monsieur Dupin.

Within a few seconds after she had called the image of the Viscount to her rescue, the Frenchman seemed to realize that something had gone wrong. He shook his head mournfully. “We have lost the rapport. It has fled. I can do nothing without the rapport.”

Jennifer, striving with every ounce of her power to keep it from being reestablished, replied soberly, “I am sorry, Monsieur Dupin. Perhaps I am not a good subject.”

Dupin frowned. “The rapport was almost there when something interfered.” He looked around the circle. “If there are skeptics here, their disbelief may impede the work.”

His eyes slid quickly over Lady Carolyn, Ingleton, and Mrs. Parsons - all obviously believers, to Lord Proctor, where they came to rest. “I do not feel your belief,” said Dupin.

  Lord Proctor drew himself up rather proudly, yet, perhaps conscious of the eyes of the believing Lady Carolyn into whose good graces he had not yet succeeded in returning, only replied, “I have not disbelieved. I have not seen enough to take a stand either way, but I assure you, my good fellow, that I have not been thinking any negative thoughts.”

Monsieur Dupin seemed to consider this. Then, as though accepting it, his eyes con-tinued their sweep of the circle, passing over Mrs. Parthemer and coming to rest on her mate. However, he seemed to think it the better part of wisdom not to accuse his host, and so simply announced, “The rapport is not there. I can no longer work with Mademoiselle Whitcomb. If the Lady Carolyn would wish...”

“Lady Carolyn had her turn last night,” interspersed Mrs. Parthemer. “I should like to be next.”

Monsieur Dupin bowed, quite gracefully Jennifer thought, to the inevitable. “Of course. If Madame will take a seat.”

  Gratefully Jennifer exchanged seats with her employer and found herself in the relative safety of the outer circle. On her left, Mr. Parthemer, very much unconvinc-ed by any of this tomfoolery, to her eyes at least, sat looking like he wished this business soon over so that he might have his cigar. And to her right Lord Proctor was still attempting to catch the evasive eye of the young Lady Carolyn, trying, Jennifer saw, to no avail. How very curious it was that Lady Carolyn’s sudden change of heart should occur in the crisis room.

And then a chilling thought occurred to her. Lady Carolyn had been alone in the crisis room, alone with Monsieur Dupin. Had
she
been lost in those black eyes, so lost that unbeknownst to herself, someone else’s will had conquered hers? That this had sometimes happened, Jennifer re-membered from the tales of her mother’s friend - tales of people following sugges-tions that had been planted in their minds unknown to them. Could Monsieur Dupin have done that to Lady Carolyn?

But then Jennifer was forced to admit that the whole idea was exceedingly far-fetched. It might have had some credence if Monsieur Dupin and Ingleton had been on any sort of terms with each other but, from all that Jennifer could see, Ingleton and Monsieur Dupin did not deal together at all well. Indeed, Ingleton seemed even more fearful of the Frenchman than she herself was.

  “Oh yes. I see!” cried Mrs. Parthemer, pulling Jennifer swiftly out of her reverie. Mrs. Parthemer, her knees in her olive green gown imprisoned between Monsieur Dupin’s, was gazing enthusiastically into his eyes.

“What do you see?” asked the French-man.

“It’s... why it’s a body, I think. Yes, it must be.”

“Whose body is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, yes. You know,” urged Monsieur Dupin in a voice that made Jennifer shi-ver. “You know this body.”

“Why... Why it’s mine!”

Jennifer could not help observing that Mrs. Parthemer’s usual languid invalidish airs had vanished and that the expression on her face was one of bright alertness.

“And what of this body?” asked the Frenchman. “Observe it with care. There is something wrong with it. What is wrong?”

“I... I cannot tell yet.” An expression of deep  concentration  covered  Mrs. Par-themer’s face.

“You
can
tell,” insisted Monsieur Dupin. “It is your body. What ails it?”

“It’s ... it’s my nerves,” exclaimed Mrs. Parthemer in triumph. “My nerves are troubled.”

“Very good,” said Monsieur Dupin. “Continue to look. How long will this sickness prevail?”

“I... I don’t know.” Mrs. Parthemer’s bright expression began to fade.

“Your body, it knows. Ask your body.”

Mrs. Parthemer frowned in concentra-tion. “It will take a year,” she cried. “I shall gradually get stronger and in a year I shall be well.”

“Very good,” repeated Monsieur Dupin. “Very good, Madame.”

Mrs. Parthemer’s bright expression faded gradually into her usual one of lassitude, but her features still retained some bright-ness as she rose from the chair and hurried to her husband’s side. “Did you hear, Mr. Parthemer? I am to be cured!”

“Yes, m’dear,” murmured Mr. Parthemer, obviously not at all convinced, but decid-edly unwilling to say so.

Jennifer rose hastily to offer Mrs. Par-themer her chair. For a moment she feared that Monsieur Dupin would again request her presence in the center chair, but fortunately, if such were his idea, he was forestalled by Mrs. Parsons.

“I have heard,” she said in that breath-less chattering way of hers, “that some-times one can speak to the dead.”

  Monsieur Dupin nodded. “Sometimes one may, but for that one must have a medium - one through whom the dead may speak. I have on occasion been employed in such a capacity.” He frowned. “Such dealings with the dead drain one of the power. I do not undertake them merely for the amuse-ment.”

“Oh, mercy no! I never supposed you did.” Poor Mrs. Parsons’s apple cheeks grew redder still. “It’s just that, well, my dear sister Abigail passed on last year. And I’d dearly love to know if she and Papa ended up in the same place - so to speak. I’d like to know that they’re both all right and together. You know, it’s such a com-fort to think of one’s relatives as still caring for each other after they’ve gone on.”

Monsieur Dupin nodded gravely and to Jennifer’s surprise replied, “I quite appre-ciate your concern. If no one else has an ailment they wish to consult about....?” His eyes swept the circle again and, when no one spoke, he bowed his head in acquies-cence. “Very well, Mrs. Parsons. If you will take the seat opposite me.”

As the round little woman eased her bulk into the chair in the center Jennifer slipped into the one she had just left. If she had suspected Monsieur Dupin of charlatanry before, she was practically certain of it now. How could any reputable person claim to speak to the dead?

She watched closely as Dupin settled back into his chair and closed his eyes. “The name of your dear Papa?” he asked.

“Mr. Parsons. Mr. Frederick Parsons,” fluttered the little old maid. “Oh, I do hope he answers.”

Monsieur Dupin frowned. “We must now have the silence. Those in the circle will join hands and concentrate on Mr. Par-sons. Let no one hinder our attempt with unbelieving thoughts.”

Well, though Jennifer, as she steadfastly considered everything and everyone but the deceased Mr. Frederick Parsons, if unbelieving thoughts could stop anything from happening. Monsieur Dupin would never contact anyone dead while
she
was in the room.

But evidently such thoughts were not sufficient hindrance, for presently Mon-sieur Dupin’s eyes opened in a glassy stare. Jennifer felt Mrs. Parthemer’s grip on her hand tighten and the hand of Lord Proctor even trembled slightly in her own as Monsieur Dupin opened his mouth and a deep voice, entirely unlike his own, spoke. “Polly, Polly, this is your Papa.”

Mrs. Parsons trembled visibly. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered.

“Have you been a good girl?” inquired the stern voice.

“Oh, yes. Papa,” replied Mrs. Parsons in the deferential tones of a little girl. She hesitated. “Is... is Abigail there, too?”

“Of course,” declared the voice. “She was a good girl. And you, too, shall join us when the time comes. But I cannot talk long. There is someone else here.”

“Who... who is it. Papa?”

“It is a naval man. He is trying to get a message through.” Jennifer stiffened. It was a trick: it had to be. “Is there a blond woman there? Her name, he says, is Jennifer.”

Mrs. Parsons’s startled eyes sped to Jennifer. Jennifer refused to meet them with her own. “Yes, Papa. She’s here.”

“Good. Her Papa says to tell her to beware of men with yellow hair.”

“But why, Papa?” Even discourse with the dead could not completely dampen Mrs. Parsons’s curiosity.

The deep voice grew sterner. “He does not say. My time is up. I must go. Be a good girl, Polly. Goodbye.”

It must be a trick, Jennifer assured her-self. It would not have been difficult for Dupin to discover that her Papa had been a navy man. It was no secret.

  But why should Monsieur Dupin warn her away from Haverford? How could he know of her association with him? Some-thing cold shivered through her; had Dupin really the power of seeing into her mind? Could he have
seen
the image of Haverford that she had summoned to her defense?

There was a long stretch of silence when even Mrs. Parsons did not dare to speak. And then Dupin straightened in his chair and shook himself. “Did you reach your father? When I am the medium, my spirit must absent itself and so I do not know what occurs.”