The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel (30 page)

Trace was starting to want to throttle them both. “What do
you
propose, then?” he asked her.

“That I invite Herr Kieler here, and we conduct the séance under the appropriate protective seals and countermeasures.”

“Protective against what?”

She made an exasperated noise. “Mr. Tracy, you are a medium. That means you are a doorway between this world and the next—perhaps between
several
worlds. Does a door have any control over what passes through it?”

“I’m not a door, I’m a man,” Trace said stiffly. “And I
was
a man of God—”

Boz and Miss Fairweather made identical
hmph
sounds.

“And there are other men
not
of God, and not of anything you would consider sacred, and all of them more experienced than you.” Her icy blue gaze held his. “If Kieler proceeds as I expect, he will attempt to induce a trance in you. If he succeeds—and it should not be difficult, because most mediums can self-induce at will—he will effectively be putting you to sleep, and he can keep you in that state for as long as he wishes, regardless of what comes through the doorway and makes itself at home in your corpus.”

Trace’s revulsion at the idea must’ve shown on his face, because her voice and expression grew more earnest.

“Believe me when I say this, Mr. Tracy.
You need someone to stand guard over you while you experiment.
And it should be someone unhampered by your concerns of morality, knowledgeable about the dangers, and experienced at defending against them.”

“And somebody with a gun wouldn’t hurt, either,” Boz added.

Her eyes shifted toward him, cynical and amused. “Mr. Bosley has a point. And we shall need a fourth for the séance, in any case.”

*   *   *

M
ISS
F
AIRWEATHER PROMISED
to arrange everything for that night. Before he and Boz left, she wrote a gushing letter to Herr Kieler, explaining how her employee, Mr. Jacob Tracy, had told her all about the wonderful experience he’d had in Kieler’s parlor, and how honored she would be if Herr Kieler would grace
her
parlor with his presence. She added a lot of vague references to Patronage, and Connections, and Society Friends.

“That ought to fetch him,” she said, handing the letter to Trace. “Now, deliver that to his door, but don’t meet him face-to-face if you can help it.”

“No,” Trace agreed.

“Be back here—both of you—at eight o’clock this evening. And we shall see whether Herr Kieler’s intentions are honorable or not.” She extended a hand, smiling politely.

Trace looked at it, and at her, and put his hat back on his head, holding her eyes in a pointed way until she returned the hand to her waist and her smile tightened into resentment. “Ma’am,” he said, and followed Boz out the door.

“Well?” he said, once they were riding away. “Did you get your measure?”

“She’s a shrewd one,” Boz said grudgingly, and after a pause added, “She sure got a shine on for you.”

“She’s got a shine for my
power,
is all.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?”

“Jesus, Boz.” Trace nudged his horse to pick up the pace, putting a few yards between himself and his partner, whom he dearly wanted to punch at the moment.

After a quarter mile or so Boz caught up again. “Look, I reckon you’re right about her not wantin to do you harm, but you said yourself she’s got somethin planned for you. She knows Kieler had some history with that Mereck polecat, and she pooh-poohed it like it were no big thing. Now you givin her exactly what she wants—you and Kieler in her house doin a séance.”

He wanted to argue, but couldn’t fault the logic. “What d’you reckon she has in mind?”

“I dunno. Teach you a lesson, maybe.”

“You think I can’t handle her?”

Boz didn’t answer for a moment. “I think the one good thing that’s come out of this is you ain’t so scared no more. You almost quit actin like God is out to get you.”

There was some truth to that, and Trace nodded.

“I just wish you’d … I dunno, get away from this woman and figure things out for yourself.”

“Go on my own spirit quest,” Trace suggested. “Like an Indian warrior.”

“If that’s what it takes. There’s plenty empty space out in Wyoming.”

Trace sucked his teeth. “Y’know, my father was kinda like her.”

“Mean as flint?”

“He could be a sonuvabitch,” Trace admitted. “But he was no hypocrite. Taught me to rely on myself, and not be swayed by the world. Some of the things he did seemed harsh at the time, but if he hadn’t toughened me up I might not’ve made it through the war and those first years after.”

“If you’re sayin she’s gettin you ready for somethin worse—”

“I’m sayin, I think there’s worse ahead. I feel it.” He tapped his breastbone with a loose fist. “I’ve
always
felt it, Boz, that’s why I been so afraid of this power. I kept pushin it down, runnin away from it, just like Jonah did … and that’s why God sent the fish to swallow him up, put him back on the right path.”

“So you’re sayin Miss Fairweather’s a big fish.”

Trace gave a bark of laughter. “She did say, usin this power regular-like is what keeps the spirits from comin round to pester me … Might also be what’s kept ’em from killin
you.
”

That shut him up for a while.

*   *   *

I
T FELT STRANGE
to be riding up to the swanky part of town at the supper hour. All the houses along Miss Fairweather’s street were warmly lit, and several of them had carriages parked along the curb, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen swanning up the walks to be greeted by butlers at the front door.

“Ain’t we livin the high life,” Boz said, as they dismounted at Miss Fairweather’s gate.

The front foyer was mysterious and romantic in the evening gloom, lit with gas lamps and pale beeswax candles, points of light reflecting off the polished woodwork and floor. Trace found his eye drawn upward, by instinct as much as architectural design—there was a sense of psychic updraft in the place he had never noticed before. He craned his neck up the stairwell, past the open balustrade of the second-floor landing, and saw the lamplights reflected in the skylight at the top of the house. The effect was of standing in the bottom of a well and looking up into the heavens, and he had the distinct feeling that if he could just let go of the floor, he would float upward—

“Trace?” Boz said. He and Min Chan had paused at the library door, looking back at him. Trace hastened to follow.

The library was likewise transformed. In the candlelight it looked less like a gentlemen’s club and more like a medieval monastery. The stained-glass windows gave an ecclesiastical air. Most of the central floor area had been cleared, leaving only the large round table, with a black cover on, and four chairs.

But it was Miss Fairweather who caught his eye, and held it. She looked like a little piece of the night sky in dark blue velvet, exquisitely fitted to her tiny figure, glittering here and there with diamonds. Her cornsilk hair was swept up grandly, her neck and arms bare. She was too thin for his taste, but she had an ethereal quality that reminded him of something, that poem about the fairy queen …

“Mr. Bosley.” Miss Fairweather clasped Boz’s hand, took in his new frock coat with an approving eye. “Stalwart
and
stylish, I see.”

“Ma’am.” Boz bowed and continued into the library, leaving Trace to stand over her, fingering the brim of his hat, holding it between her and himself as if it were a shield.

“You look well,” Trace said at last, and it was not a lie. The candlelight was kind to her pallor and the sharp lines of her face.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci,
he thought. That was the name of it.

“I
am
better, thanks to you,” she said quietly.

“If I were to shake your hand now, would you suck me dry like a spider?”

“I would not.” Her pale blue eyes measured him with a good deal more caution than usual. “You must know I had no control over what happened yesterday.”

“I know it.”

“And yet you think me a spider?”

“I think there’s somethin about this house I can’t get my feet unstuck from,” Trace said, and that was not a lie, either. Her lips quirked in amusement, and Trace felt his own face lightening.

Boz was wrong, he thought. She had no romantic interest in him, any more than he had in her. But there
was
something between them. Fellow-feeling. Recognition of mutual need. Something that didn’t fit neatly into the pigeonholes of male-female relationships, that was for sure. He just knew, somehow, his fate was tied up with this mean little Englishwoman’s.

Trace put out a hand and Miss Fairweather slid hers into it. “You are not lacking in courage, are you, Mr. Tracy?”

“I like to think not,” he said, and she took his arm to draw him toward the fireplace.

“Now we await only Herr Kieler.” Miss Fairweather ushered them into the wing chairs by the fire, and took her own seat beside the tea tray. “Have you both dined? Would you care for a digestif? I hope you will be content with coffee, Mr. Tracy. I think alcohol would not be a good choice for you tonight.”

“Coffee’s fine,” Trace said shortly. Courage or no, he was tight as a fiddle string with anticipation. “On second thought, I’ll have some of that Scotch.”

Miss Fairweather’s brows lifted, but she signaled to Min Chan, who brought Trace and Boz each a tumbler of whiskey. Miss Fairweather took sherry, and they all drank silently, absorbed in their own dark thoughts.

Boz had been cocky and purposeful all afternoon, almost belligerent. Trace guessed he had ideas about “settling” things tonight, maybe putting Miss Fairweather in her place. And that sounded like Custer’s plan to subdue the Sioux. He had tried to explain to Boz that pressuring her was a bad idea, that despite her outward coldness there was something vulnerable in her that she would defend to the death sooner than risk exposing.

As for himself … Trace could hardly define his own expectations. He only knew he wasn’t afraid. Not of her, not of Kieler. This séance had him a little nervous, but he found he
did
trust Miss Fairweather—if only to protect him in her own interest. And in the past several weeks he’d gotten a feel for his own strength. He might not have total control over his ability, but he was fair sure the two of them combined were no match for him in terms of raw power.

Already it was pooling and thrumming at the back of his skull, as if in response to his heightened nerves. And when he paid attention to it, Trace noticed again that sense of upward-drawing, as if invisible telegraph wires ran through the library and up through the timbers of the house. The area around the séance table felt particularly charged, and he knew she had not been exaggerating about her protective measures. There was no rug under the table and he could see no obvious marks on the floor, but the currents in the room dodged and flowed around that area like water around a boulder.

There was a low rumble of thunder, off in the distance.

“I do believe it is going to rain,” Miss Fairweather murmured.

“Trace tells me you’re an educated woman,” Boz said. “Does that include divinatin of the weather?”

Miss Fairweather smiled. “Divination is not among my skills, I am afraid. I do, however, watch patterns of winds and barometric pressure. The glass has been falling all day. The cool breeze entering from the north should combine with the warm humid air of the day, and precipitation is the likely result. Any worthy sailor could tell you the same.”

“You do the same thing with live critters? Bloodsuckers? Mesmerists?”

“Boz,” Trace said.

“What? I’m just makin conversation.”

“Mr. Bosley has a curious mind,” Miss Fairweather said, with deceptive mildness. “You mustn’t begrudge him that. Tell me, Mr. Bosley, were you fortunate enough to locate your wife and daughter, after the war?”

Boz froze with the glass halfway to his lips.

“Perhaps I am being naïve, as a foreigner, but I should think the Bureau of Military Information would have exercised its resources on your behalf, in return for your years of service.”

Boz swallowed audibly. “No, ma’am, they were not that generous.”

“What a pity. Did you think to ask Mr. Tracy whether he had encountered your family’s ghosts over the years?”

“No.” The revulsion on Boz’s face approached awe.
I warned you,
Trace thought. “Can’t say it ever crossed my mind.”

“Ah.” She sipped her sherry. “So you are less curious about things pertaining to you.” She smiled awfully. “We all have our tender points, do we not?”

“Herr Franz Kieler,” Min Chan announced from the doorway, and they all stood, the atmosphere twanging with heightened tension. Miss Fairweather slid from her chair and glided across the carpet, hands outstretched.

“Herr Kieler.” She took both his hands in hers and he bent low over them, obsequious in every line of his body. “What an honor you do me!”

“Dear lady, the honor is mine. I only hope I can reward your generosity by bringing enlightenment to you and your guests…” Kieler’s bright little eyes darted to Trace and Boz, and a furrow appeared between his brows. “Mr. Tracy … Mr. Bosley. Such a pleasure to see you again.”

“You can’t imagine my delight,” Miss Fairweather said, drawing him into the room, “when Mr. Tracy informed me of his visit to you. I saw you in London when I was a girl … at Mrs. Blanchard’s salon? I was too young to attend, but I crept down the servants’ stairs and listened behind the door. You were
brilliant
that night—so wise and compassionate. Mother talked about it for weeks afterward. I have
so
longed to meet you.”

Trace watched, fascinated, as she pressed both his hands between hers, an enraptured expression on her face. Kieler swelled with pride, taking on dignity despite his shabby suit and diminutive bearing.

“My dear child, it is clear to me, the fates have drawn our paths together again. When Mr. Tracy appeared in my salon I felt at once the pull of familiarity, but my poor skills could not have divined his connection to you—” (
Whatever that might be,
Trace thought, exchanging a sardonic glance with Boz) “—nor the connection between us. For we are all connected, my dear. No one is ever completely lost or alone, that is the wisdom I have learned over the years.”