The Seance (24 page)

I cannot go on
, I thought. And then I heard Edward saying, ‘extraordinary eyes the man has – if I were a portrait painter I should certainly want him for a subject’. Often when I tried to summon Edward’s face in memory, he would come to me only as a blur; then at other times he would appear unbidden, as vivid to my inner eye as if he were standing next to me. This was one of those times; I heard the exact accents of his voice: his face came back to me, alight with joy and hope, and yet I felt no grief; I could feel his presence here, now, beside me in the dark room. I remained vaguely conscious of the glittering coin, and of Magnus Wraxford’s features floating behind it, but Edward was calling me into the clear light of day, speaking what I knew to be words of great comfort, words I strained to hear but could not quite distinguish, and his presence remained with me until, with no perceptible transition, I found myself in grey twilight, with the acrid scent of a snuffed candle in my nostrils, and Magnus Wraxford looking down at me. Through the open curtains I saw mist swirling against the window.

‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I did try ...’

‘Indeed you did, Miss Unwin, but ... frankly, I have never seen anything quite like it. You appeared to go into a deep trance, but then did not
respond to any of my suggestions; it seemed to me that you did not even hear them.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘I had a dream – at least I think it was a dream – of Edward; he was speaking, but I could not make out what he said.’

‘I see.’ There was an edge of frustration to his tone, for which I could scarcely blame him; he was plainly not accustomed to failure. ‘Then perhaps you really did fall asleep, though it did not seem so.’

‘I am truly sorry, sir,’ I repeated, ‘to have wasted so much of your time.’

‘Not in the least,’ he said, recovering his good humour with a rueful smile, ‘I am only dismayed at my own incompetence. Shall we try again tomorrow?’

‘Sir, I could not possibly—’ I began, but he waved away my protest, declined the offer of tea, and was gone before I remembered that I was supposed to ask him to dine.

That evening I spoke of the difficulty to Ada and George.

‘I am sure,’ I said, ‘that if Ada were allowed to sit with me, I should fall quite easily into a trance, but he says it would interfere with my concentration.’

‘I see,’ said George. ‘I hadn’t thought the presence of a third party would be an obstacle, but then I know nothing of the science of mesmerism. To speak frankly: are you afraid that he will abuse your trust?’

‘Perhaps I am, though I don’t feel exactly that; I don’t know what it is that unnerves me.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Ada hesitantly, ‘that if his intentions were dishonourable, he would insist upon seeing you somewhere else. He would be taking a very great risk, here ...’

‘Yes, you are right,’ I said.

‘I wonder if it’s his eyes,’ said George, ‘the way they hold the light. I’m sure it’s what makes him a good mesmerist, but it is a little unnerving.’

‘I think it must be,’ I said, and resolved not to allow my nerves to inconvenience him any further.

My unease returned, nonetheless, as the room darkened and Magnus Wraxford again assumed the appearance of a severed head and hand floating above the candle flame.
I must not fear him
, I told myself sternly, and found that by narrowing my eyes slightly I could focus more exclusively upon the glittering coin, and then that if I concentrated upon breathing deeply and regularly, I became gradually less aware of the disturbing undertones in his voice, so that it seemed as if I were telling myself to relax, and become sleepier, and sleep, deeper and deeper until I woke to daylight and the dwindling spiral of smoke from the snuffed candle and no recollection of anything beyond
I must not fear him
.

I thought for a moment I had failed him again, but then I saw that he was smiling at me; his whole demeanour, even his appearance, seemed subtly different.

‘Well done, Miss Unwin; you have been in a deep trance for the past twenty minutes.’

‘And – do you think I am cured?’

‘I can’t guarantee it, I’m afraid, but yes, I am very optimistic; and of course you know that you can call on me at any time.’

It was strange, the way he had altered; he seemed gentler, less intimidating. He leaned towards me; we were seated facing each other, only two feet apart, and for a moment I thought he meant to kiss me, until I saw that he was only picking up the gold coin. I was startled, then shocked; surely I could not have
wanted
him to kiss me, with Edward scarcely four months dead?

Magnus, as I had begun to think of him, came to dine that night at George’s invitation and was altogether charming; there was no talk of hauntings or séances, only of books and paintings, with much affectionate remembrance of Edward, and for the first time since his death I felt almost at peace – though a little uneasy with myself for feeling so. Magnus seemed to be in no hurry to get back to London, and I was relieved – for reasons I preferred not to examine too closely – that George did not invite him to spend the rest of his stay in Chalford with us.

I woke the following morning to find the sun, which we had scarcely seen for weeks, streaming through my bedroom window. It was one of those rare, still January days when for a few brief hours the world is bathed in dazzling light, and you half believe it will never be grey and wet again. The accustomed pain of waking was still there, but my grief had lost its raw, lacerating edge; or rather, I became aware that it had been imperceptibly dwindling for some time.

I was sitting in the garden with my book upon my lap, not reading or even thinking but simply absorbing the warmth of the sun, when a shadow fell across my chair, and I looked up to find Magnus standing a few feet away from me.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘You didn’t,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid George and Ada are out.’

‘The maid told me; it is you I have come to see.’

The sun was in my eyes, so that I could not make out his expression, but my heart was suddenly beating much faster.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ I said.

‘Thank you,’ he said, moving the chair in which Ada had been sitting so that he was facing me. He was dressed as on the day we had spoken in the churchyard, his stock and shirt-front glowing in the sunlight.

‘Miss Unwin – Eleanor, if I may’ – sounding uncharacteristically hesitant – ‘I wonder if you have any idea of what I have come to say?’

I shook my head wordlessly.

‘I know you will say it is too soon – but Eleanor, I have grown not only to admire you but to love you; you are a woman of rare courage, intelligence and beauty, and – and in short, I have come to ask you to be my wife.’

I regarded him speechlessly for a long moment.

‘Sir,’ I stammered at last, ‘Dr Wraxford – I am greatly honoured – you do me far more honour than I deserve – and I am deeply grateful for all your kindness to – to Edward as well as to me. But I must decline – it is too soon, as you say, but most of all because I do not think I could
ever love you, or any man, as I loved Edward, and it would not be fair or right to accept, even if ... that is to say – it would not be fair,’ I ended rather weakly.

‘I do not ask so much,’ he replied. ‘I should not want or expect to take Edward’s place in your heart; only to hope that you will come to love me in a different way.’

Even as I sought for the right words of refusal I could not help contemplating all the advantages of accepting. He was learned, cultivated, handsome, and perhaps rich, and if he had not cured me of the visitations, he would be on hand if ever they recurred . . .

‘I am sorry,’ I said at last, ‘but I cannot – you must seek a woman who will love you with her whole heart, as I loved Edward. And besides – supposing my affliction recurs – if I were to see an apparition of you . . .’ Yet I knew, even as I spoke, that he was somehow proof against the visitations.

‘I can only say, Eleanor, that it will be you, or no one. I was happy as a bachelor; I had no plans to marry; but you have possessed my imagination as I thought no woman would ever do. And as for your affliction, as you call it; you are right, we cannot be certain you are cured; there is a power in you, like it or not, that perhaps can only be contained. I do not fear it; but many people do’ – he leaned over and took my hand – his own was surprisingly cold – and fixed me with his luminous gaze – ‘and I dread your falling into the hands of those who, if they knew of it, would simply confine you – as you once told me your own mother threatened to do.’

‘But I can’t marry you simply because ... you must give me time—’ I broke off suddenly, realising what I had said.

‘Of course,’ he said, smiling, ‘all the time in the world; and I shall dare, at least, to hope.’

Ada and George were surprised, but not altogether astounded, to hear of his proposal, and we sat up talking very late that night. ‘If you are
not sure of your feelings,’ Ada kept saying, ‘you must not accept; you will always have a home with us’, and I went to bed resolved to refuse him. But I knew that I could not burden them much longer. Ada still hoped and longed for a child, and a stipend that might just support three would certainly not be enough for four. I tossed and turned for hours, as it seemed, before drifting into uneasy dreams, of which I remember only the last.

I woke – or dreamed I woke – at dawn, thinking I had heard my mother call my name. There was nothing odd about her presence in the rectory; I lay there listening for some time, but the call was not repeated. At last I got out of bed, went to the door in my nightgown and looked out. There was no one in the passage, in which everything appeared to be just as in waking life, but I was suddenly seized by fearful apprehension. My heart began to pound, more and more loudly, until I became aware that I was dreaming – and found myself standing in pitch darkness, with no idea where I was. I felt carpet beneath my bare feet, with a ridge running across it. With my heart still thudding violently, I stretched out my hand until it struck something wooden – a post of some sort – then slid one foot forward until it passed over an edge into empty space. I had come within an inch of plunging head-first down the stairs.

The following morning, Magnus Wraxford returned and renewed his proposal; and this time, I accepted.

On a grey spring morning, a few hours before I was to be married to Magnus Wraxford, I stood once more beside Edward’s grave. My doubts had begun that same afternoon; telling Ada and George, I had heard the note of forced happiness in my own voice, and seen my unease reflected in their faces. Why had I not told him, the very next day, that I had changed my mind? – it was a woman’s prerogative, after all. Because I
had given my word; because I had refused him the first time; because he had reposed his trust in me: the reasons multiplied like the heads upon the Hydra. I had torn up dozens of attempts at a letter saying I could not marry him because I did not love him as a wife should love her husband; every time I reached ‘because’, I would hear him replying, ‘I do not expect so much; I hope only that you will grow to love me.’

I could not understand how I had agreed to so much, in the course of a single hour in the rectory garden, from accepting a man I scarcely knew, to naming a day less than three months off. Magnus had said that whilst he would be perfectly willing to be married in church, it would be hypocritical of him not to declare his lack of Christian faith, and somehow in conceding this I had found myself agreeing to a civil ceremony, performed by special licence on the last Saturday in March, and before I had collected my wits, he was gone, with the touch of his lips lingering upon my forehead. And when he had called the following day, it was to offer me a wedding tour anywhere in the world, for as long as I should wish. I had said no, I would prefer to embark upon our ordinary married life straight away, thinking that at least I would not be utterly alone with him so soon; but then the thought struck me as so uncharitable, when he was willing to put aside his work for my pleasure, that I found myself unable to declare my doubts as I had resolved.

He seemed, indeed, to want nothing more of me than that I should be his wife, and share his fortune, and live more or less as I pleased while he got on with his work – nothing, that is, except that I should bear him a son. I shrank from contemplating what that implied, but I also blamed myself for shrinking. Edward was gone, and I would never love any other man in that way; what I might learn to feel for Magnus would be utterly different, and perhaps it would be better not to have any comparison. Not all women who were contentedly married loved their husbands as I had loved Edward, that was plain, but they adored their children just the same. And besides, what was the alternative, if I broke my promise to him? I could not stay with George and Ada; and then I would be utterly
alone in the world. All I had received from my mother, in reply to my painfully composed letter, was a cold note of congratulation, regretting that I had chosen a date upon which it was quite impossible that either she or Sophie could attend, since Sophie was now ‘in a delicate condition’ – the euphemism could only have been intended as a calculated insult – and would by then be unable to leave London; and of course my mother could not think of leaving Sophie’s side to attend a civil ceremony at such a time.