The Vital Principle (2 page)

love you

The pencil stilled in her hand.

A sob broke from the dowager, hastily smothered as she pressed her fingers to her lips. She reached over and clutched Pru’s right wrist.

“Is he …is he h-happy?” she stammered.

“Oh, mother! For God’s sake!” Lord Crowley said. “Must you?”

The pencil moved again. Pru wrote with a bold flourish, “
yes-happy
.”

Weeping openly, the dowager held onto Pru, her hand shaking with emotion. But Pru did not relax or react to the dowager until Lord Crowley spoke again.

“For God’s sake!” Lord Crowley exclaimed, the words punctuated by a snort. “This is ludicrous!”

Mr. Jekyll, a long-time neighbor of the Crowley’s, protested, “Lord Crowley, really, there are women present. Watch your language. Please.” He gestured at his wife, seated on his left, but she didn’t seem the least shocked by the outburst.

She stared past her husband towards her daughter, Mrs. Marley, seated on Mr. Jekyll's right. The young woman ignored her and gazed at the table. Overwhelming exhaustion pressed deep lines into her pasty, white face. As Pru watched, Mrs. Marley cast a speculative glance at her mother as if wondering about her chances of obtaining a reprieve and escaping to her bed chamber.

The three members of the clannish Jekyll family, Mr. and Mrs. Mark Jekyll, and their sickly daughter, Mrs. Marley, all seemed uninterested in the proceedings, although they’d been polite and helpful despite Mr. Jekyll’s few, acidic comments. The light from the candle barely illuminated their pallid faces as they stared at one another, still obediently holding hands on top of the table.

The muffled sobs of Lady Crowley faded as the guests whispered to each other. The flame in the center of the table flickered in the drafts as they bent towards each other to speak. Shadows leapt in response, dancing around them and leaning over their shoulders, pressing forward toward the meager light.

Tiring of the charade, Pru fluttered her lashes and exhaled, making a show of coming out of her trance. She glanced at her left hand.

With a startled exclamation, she dropped the pencil. “Did we communicate with your husband?”

“Yes,
thank you
!” Lady Crowley said.

Aware of Mr. Gaunt’s presence, Pru cast a quick look in his direction. His black eyes caught and held hers. An uncomfortable flush rose to her cheeks.

He stared a trifle too long before one of his brows arched. “Bravo,” he said, his voice soft with sarcasm.

She glanced toward her hostess, refusing to acknowledge his remark. “Did you—”

Without warning, the single candle in the center of the table flickered. The flame died.

The room went entirely dark.

Deep in her breast lives the silent wound
. —Virgil, c. 70-19 B.C.

Pru blinked and rubbed her eyes, blinded by the smothering, inky blackness. The curtains, drawn earlier to eliminate drafts, effectively blocked any light from the pale moon. The air felt icy and heavy around them, as oppressive as the musty interior of a long abandoned room.

A woman screamed, her voice shrill with hysteria. Lord Crowley’s nervous betrothed, Miss Spencer?

Pru glanced in her direction. She could see nothing, not a single flicker of light or paler patch of gray.

“Miss Spencer!” Pru said. “Please, there’s nothing to fear. Please
hush
!”

At the sound of her voice, Miss Spencer’s shriek broke off, only to start again, keening more loudly as several other women gasped in unison. Their agitated voices rose as their fear fed off one another’s shrill, spiraling screams.

“Something touched me!” Miss Spencer’s voice shook. Chairs thumped over the carpet, thudding as they hit the table’s legs. The table trembled when someone bumped into it, fumbling in the murky blackness. “There’s something here! In the dark! Oh, my
God
! Something’s
here
!”

The dowager gave a small, startled shriek and hastily controlled it when she found and clutched Pru’s wrist. Pru’s heart pounded despite her belief that the only horror present was the very real possibility of deafness if one more person shrieked into her ear.

Madness
. They were all going mad. She couldn't help a flicker of fear, though.

Is there something moving in the dark? After all these years, has something finally answered my call?

The air swirled. Fluttering strands of hair brushed her cheeks and forehead. An errant eddy lifted the hair at the back of her neck. Goosebumps trailed down her back as she tried see in the complete darkness. Her stomach tightened.

Then, a hard hand clamped down on her shoulder. She jumped, but the disembodied hand pushed her back into her seat roughly. Her heart vibrated. Her throat constricted until she realized she felt the human heat of the fingers gripping her shoulder.

It was only the man sitting next to her, Mr. Gaunt.

As her heartbeat slowed, her nervousness devolved into annoyance. Was he afraid she would flee under the cover of darkness? Run screaming from the room because of a few shadows?

She called out to the hysterical women, “There’s nothing here. Don’t be afraid—”

“Remain calm. Quiet!” Mr. Gaunt said in his deep voice. “Do you have a phosphorus box, Lord Crowley?”

“Of course,” Lord Crowley said.

The confusing noise of bodies stumbling about and jostling chairs interrupted the crying. A few men leaned over to reassure nearby women, however despite their confident words, the low, masculine murmurs shook, betraying their own nervousness.

Finally, a spark flared in the darkness. Pru smelled the sharp, chemical scent of matches. As she turned toward the odor, Lord Crowley struck a sulfur-tipped match against the cork of a tiny bottle containing phosphorous. A flame sprang up.

Lord Crowley relit the candle. After watching it a moment, he inserted the phosphorous bottle back into the box of matches and looked around.

In the flaring light, Pru noted the trembling of his plump, damp hands. At least it was not just the women who had felt that deep, abject terror.

Despite the return to normalcy, the pressure on Pru’s shoulder did not ease. Finally, she touched Mr. Gaunt’s sleeve lightly and gazed up at him.

“I’m quite safe, I assure you,” she said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Or, are you in need of reassurance? The dead won’t harm you, you know.”

Maybe he thought she had somehow smothered the candlelight as a prelude to a more stupendous spirit manifestation. She smiled up at him. Perhaps he was not so invulnerable after all, this inquiry agent.

“Is that it?” he asked.

The dowager daubed her eyes with a fragment of lace and linen before she glanced expectantly at Pru. After studying Lady Crowley’s gray face, Pru decided they had all had quite enough for one evening.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I doubt we’ll have any other communications this evening after these disturbances.” Pru slid the slate over the polished surface of the table toward her hostess. “Do these words have any meaning for you, Lady Crowley?”

“Oh, yes.” The dowager picked up the slate. “Thank you so much. This means
everything
to me, my dear.” Her fingers hovered over the scrawled words. “His writing—” she said, her voice breaking. “Precisely as when he lived.”

“Very good,” Mr. Gaunt said to Pru in low tones. “And with your left hand, too.”

She took a deep breath, suppressing the desire to turn and say something sharp enough to wipe the superior expression off his saturnine face. With a little effort, she managed a small, tight smile. What did he know of these matters? What a few kind words could mean to the dowager?

“Perhaps some refreshment?” Lady Crowley asked, her voice rising with hope. Her eyes rested briefly on her son’s sullen face before she dropped her gaze again to the slate.

With an impatient snort, Lord Crowley reached around his mother’s shoulder and grabbed the slate. He studied the words for a minute, scowling before he wetted his forefinger.

“No!” Lady Crowley snatched the slate back and slid it toward Pru. “Don’t erase his words!”

“Yes, refreshments,” Lord Crowley said, pointedly ignoring his mother. “May, bring the brandy and some Madeira for the ladies.” He patted the shoulder of his betrothed with an air of ownership.

Without speaking, Miss Spencer leaned away from him although she barely seemed to notice his gesture. Her attention remained fixed with morbid fascination on the slate.

“And biscuits,” the dowager added. “The almond ones Miss Barnard likes so well.” She smiled at Pru—truly smiled—relief relaxing the tight lines bracketing her mouth. Her lace-edged handkerchief fluttered in her hand once more as she dabbed the corners of her pale, cloudy eyes.

“Are you sure you aren’t too tired?” Pru asked.

Lady Crowley shook her head, dislodging a gray-brown curl that wobbled briefly over her ear. “No, no. This is such a relief, Miss Barnard, such a relief! If you only knew….”

Oh, I know. I know only too well
.

Pru smiled, leaning back in her chair, satisfied. The expression on Lady Crowley’s face told her she’d done the correct thing. Lord Crowley and Mr. Gaunt’s disapproval didn’t matter in the least.

The men failed to understand, or care, that the dowager had been haunted by her inadequacies, catalogued in such meticulous detail by her late husband. How could Lady Crowley have known he’d suffer a stroke and die before she could return home? Why should she bear the burden of believing his fury over her absence had killed him?

“Is that really his writing?” Lady Howard circled around the table to stand behind her friend’s chair. The lady rested a slim hand on Lady Crowley’s shoulder and bent, giving the dowager a brief, caring embrace while she read the slate.

“I believe so. His very own, dear hand.” The dowager pointed to the phrase, “I forgive.” Then, she said, “See how the top stroke of the ‘I’ slants down? And the ‘R’ fails to connect properly with the ‘G’? He never could form those letters correctly—” Her voice broke. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief.

“Then I’m pleased for your sake.” Lady Howard gave the dowager’s shoulders another hug before straightening and glancing at her daughter, Miss Fanny Howard.

“What does it mean? Why does he say, ‘forgive’?” Miss Howard asked. Her blue eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Does he want you to forgive him? For what?”

“He should ask
you
to forgive him, after how he treated you,” Lady Howard said, breaking off her daughter’s impertinent questions. She bent again and pressed an affectionate kiss on the dowager’s cheek, squeezing her shoulder. “You were always too kind to him.”

Pru smiled watching them, relieved that the dowager had someone to care about her other than her dreadful son. The Howards were both attractive, warm-hearted women. Pru had felt drawn to them immediately.

Her gaze rested briefly on the daughter. During the last few days, whenever Pru had come upon Miss Howard unexpectedly, she’d found her brooding over something she refused to discuss. What did such a pretty young lady have to worry about? Other than unrequited love, of course.

“No,” the dowager said. “No, he didn’t need my forgiveness. I loved him.” Her fingers ran lightly over the slate. A damp fingertip underscored the word “love”. A gentle smile curved her mouth, providing a glimpse of the beauty she must have had in her youth. “I’ve always loved him—”

“Fakery—a trick! Nothing more,” Lord Crowley interrupted. “Tell her, Mr. Gaunt. It was nothing but deception.”

Men willingly believe what they wish
. —Julius Caesar, c. 100-44 B.C.

All eyes focused on Knighton Gaunt. He met their glances with a tired shrug. For his part, the only thing he could state with any certainty was that he was exhausted from too many inquiries performed in a brief span of time. He wanted nothing more than to return to his agency, Second Sons, and find his office free of semi-hysterical clients.

Examining first the dowager’s relieved face and then the slate on the table, Knighton Gaunt frowned thoughtfully. Miss Barnard had been clever, however he could see no reason for anyone to fear her, certainly not Lord Crowley.

In fact, under other circumstance, Knighton might have found Miss Barnard to be an attractive and entertaining woman. Initially drawn to the sparkle of intelligence in her dark eyes, he now felt a subtle sense of disappointment over her life of fraud and deceit. Why would such an obviously well-educated woman be so careless of honesty and her reputation? Why pretend she could contact the spirit world?

He stared at her, annoyance growing with her bland expression. She seemed completely insensitive to her lies. She sat there, so typically feminine, as if she could flutter her dark lashes and create instant belief in any deception she cared to practice.

Nonetheless, she’d stayed firmly in her chair during the entire session. The only bit of trickery had been her chicken-scratches on a piece of slate. He found it interesting that Lady Crowley claimed the writing was in the hand of her late husband. And it was frustrating that Miss Barnard had written it with her left hand.

Certainly curious, but difficult to use as proof of deceit.
Not at all what Lord Crowley obviously hoped to hear from an inquiry agent.

So however much as it annoyed him, he couldn’t help a flash of respect.

“Are you left-handed, Miss Barnard?” he asked, expecting another falsehood.

“Look for yourself.” She held out her hand for inspection, her expression cool and composed.

When he didn’t respond immediately, she smiled slowly, challenging him to prove her to be an immoral fraud taking advantage of an elderly, grieving widow.

He caught her slim fingers and examined them. Then, as if she feared he would miss the significance, she held up her right hand. A callus from years of writing graced the top joint of her middle finger. The same finger on her left hand remained smooth.

Despite the evidence, he remained unconvinced that a lack of calluses meant she could become a conduit for communicating with the late Lord Crowley, or any other spirit for that matter.

“My late husband was left-handed,” Lady Crowley stated, watching them. Her wrinkled face glowed with astonishment.

“What can be proven from writing on a slate?” he countered.

Miss Barnard glanced at him quickly, her lustrous, dark eyes mysterious and fathomless in the dim light. Her expression gave no clue as to her thoughts, although the slight tightness at the corners of her eyes bespoke of wariness.

“Perhaps she really can communicate with disembodied spirits,” Miss Spencer said, her light voice tentative. She glanced up at her betrothed, obviously seeking his approval. When Lord Crowley scowled, she straightened before defiantly asserting, “I believe her.”

Another member of the party, Mr. George Denham, Esquire, agreed, “Very true. There is always the possibility Miss Barnard is one of the fortunate few who can sense, and in some way allow, the
vital principle
—the animating spirit in man—to flow through her and communicate with us. To transcend the gulf between the material and immaterial worlds. That is why she used her left hand. Lord Crowley was left-handed.”

His earnest words were spoken with calm self-assurance despite his overall bewildered look, as if he were a blunt, ruddy-faced farmer who’d inadvertently wandered into Lord Crowley's dinner party. Earlier, when Crowley had introduced him as an old friend, Knighton had dismissed the stodgy man as the sort of loyal, staunch supporter all peers seemed to collect. Friends from public school, friends for life.

Mr. Denham leaned forward and awkwardly patted Miss Spencer’s shoulder, although he remained seated at her right.

Miss Spencer nodded timidly and ignored the disapproval of her betrothed. “My very thoughts, exactly. She wrote with her left hand because
he
wrote with that hand.”

“Where’s the brandy?” Lord Crowley’s voice rode roughshod over her hesitant words. “I’ve had enough. It’s damnably dry in here.”

The maid who had waited so patiently by the door left. She returned minutes later carrying a tray laden with platters of biscuits, small cakes, cheese and fruit. She set this down at the dowager’s elbow, deftly moved the china platters of food to the table before collecting the crystal decanter of brandy and glasses from the sideboard.

“Graham! Bring more lights,” Lord Crowley said, eyeing the food critically.

The dowager turned to the maid. “Don’t forget the Madeira, May. Unless Miss Barnard would prefer some other beverage? Coffee or tea, perhaps?”

Glancing at the men, Lord Crowley poured glasses of brandy as he noted their nods. His mother passed the plates of biscuits while she waited for the ladies’ wine.

Knighton watched and suppressed his desire to leave. Earlier, Lord Crowley had made it quite clear Knighton was not a guest. So he imagined he would be dismissed just as soon as Crowley realized the detective could not satisfactorily discredit Miss Barnard after her brief performance. He had warned Lord Crowley that might be the case. However Crowley insisted he try.

Strange that Knighton liked the charlatan better than the man who had hired him. And more unsettling, he’d rather trust her than his host.

Eyes on her tray, the maid returned to the table, walking carefully toward the spot between the dowager and Miss Barnard. Despite her care, she tripped a yard away from her destination.

The bottle of Madeira flew off the tray and hit Miss Barnard in the shoulder. Sprays of wine geysered over the dowager, Miss Barnard, and the table. A few amber droplets traveled as far as Lord Crowley and Knighton, sprinkling over them like an aromatic spring rain. Both leapt to their feet, along with most of guests.

“Good Lord, May—you stupid girl!” Lord Crowley brushed the alcohol from the sleeves of his black satin evening jacket.

The others clustered around the Crowleys and Miss Barnard, handing them handkerchiefs and napkins to sop up the spreading stains. The air grew sharp with the astringent scent of spilled wine. Knighton stepped back, repelled by the strong smell of alcohol.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Crowley, Miss Barnard—oh, your poor dress!” The maid tried to help both ladies, fluttering between them with a linen tea towel clutched in her hand. Her plump lips trembled as she dabbed uselessly at the dowager's dress.

Miss Howard, who had been sitting next to Knighton, leapt out of her seat. She edged around him, her silk skirt brushing his leg as she hurried to Miss Barnard’s assistance.

When she tried to blot the Madeira out of Miss Barnard’s dark hair, Miss Howard suddenly cried, “Ouch!” She hopped away, letting out another cry of pain, “My foot—I’ve stepped on something!”

Miss Barnard, already standing to wipe the stains from her dark silk skirts, put out a hand to support Miss Howard’s elbow. “Sit in my chair. What is it? A piece of broken glass?”

Knighton turned to assist the two women before the furious voice of his host caught his attention. He glanced across the table. A small maelstrom of anger had erupted around Lord Crowley.

Sighing, Knighton watched, wishing his host were less childish and had better control over his emotions. His doting mother had certainly ruined him. They would both have been better off if Henry Crowley had been sent away to school at an early age, rather than having every whim indulged at home.

Temper tantrums, particularly in adult men, repulsed him.

“Useless girl!” Lord Crowley snarled amidst the confusion. He confronted the maid, his heavy, round face flushed. He crushed his sodden handkerchief into a ball before throwing it at her chest. “Get some help and sweep up that glass, you pathetic creature! Then get out of my sight!”

When the maid scurried away, Knighton’s gaze lingered speculatively on the nearly purple face of Lord Crowley. An attack of apoplexy appeared imminent as he glared at the retreating back of the maid. However as soon as she left, the florid color slowly drained away. He glanced uneasily at his mother and wiped his sleeve again.

Relieved, Knighton crouched to pick up the fragments of shattered glasses and the bottle. While thus occupied, he came face-to-face with Miss Barnard. She ignored him and quietly plucked the larger shards out of the carpeting and placed them on her dessert plate. Her face was white in the poor light and she kept her eyes averted, concentrating on the broken glass.

Knighton smiled and suppressed the urge to prod her into looking up at him with her dark eyes. Prior to the supposed spirit contact, her gaze had held a subtle challenge that caught his reluctant interest. She was hard to ignore.

Still, he could not quite forgive, or forget, her performance. How could she defend a clearly indefensible position? What conceivable reason could she give for deceiving grieving widows with false spirit communications?

When the butler and footman arrived, Knighton’s inexpert efforts at cleaning ended with relief. The butler, Mr. Graham, solemnly began lighting more candles while the footman and the trembling maid swept up the rest of the broken glass.

Then, despite Knighton’s outstretched hand, Miss Barnard rose without accepting his assistance. She moved with elegant economy of motion to the other side of Lady Crowley. He watched her, chagrined, as she stepped between the dowager and her son to assist the older woman with her turban, knocked askew during the confusion. Miss Barnard seemed so solicitous of her hostess that she appeared almost over-protective.

Under other circumstance, Knighton might have believed she was the kind-hearted, gentle woman she appeared to be.

“I’ve brung another bottle and more glasses, Lady Crowley,” the maid said.

“Yes, yes, put them on the table.”

The maid gingerly placed the tray on the table and unloaded it. After a deep sigh, she disappeared from sight, stooping below the edge of the table to help the footman clean up the spill.

“Thank you, Miss Barnard,” the dowager said, her beringed hands fluttering from her dark blue turban to the lacy edge of her bodice and back again. “Miss Howard, are you badly injured?”

Seated in Miss Barnard’s chair, Miss Howard leaned over, holding one slippered foot between her hands. A few tears dripped over her plump cheeks. “I’ve stepped on a piece of glass.”

Lord Thompson, a tall, haughty gentleman who set Knighton's teeth on edge without trying, bent down on one knee in front of the injured girl. However, Miss Barnard knelt between them before Thompson could take Miss Howard’s foot in his hand to examine it. She gently eased the shard out of the thin kid sole of Miss Howard’s slipper with long, sensitive fingers.

Frowning, Lord Thompson pulled out a handkerchief, shook it, and handed it to Miss Barnard. He obviously wanted to prove his concern to Miss Howard, despite Miss Barnard’s interference. Both women ignored him. Miss Barnard bound the foot tightly and then fitted the thin shoe over the bandage while Lady Howard gripped her daughter’s hand.

Miss Howard, noting Knighton’s glance, flushed and stared down at the floor. He studied her pretty face, wondering why she seemed so oddly secretive. It was strange to find a girl of marriageable age who preferred the company of her mother to any of the men present.

Perhaps she simply didn’t care for the selection.

He couldn’t blame her. There wasn’t much choice. The only unattached males were George Denham with his farmer-like appearance, Lord Thompson who was attractive but too haughty to appeal to most women, Lord Crowley’s quiet, middle-aged uncle, and their unpleasant host.

“Let me help you to your room,” Lord Thompson said.

“Thank you,” mother and daughter said together. Miss Howard added, “Thank you, however it’s unnecessary.”

“Of course it’s necessary,” he replied brusquely. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He briefly joined the cluster of guests milling around the Crowleys.

When Lord Crowley did not immediately turn to him, Lord Thompson picked up a snifter of brandy and took a quick, fortifying gulp. “If you’ll pardon me, Lord Crowley, I’ll take Miss Howard and her mother to their rooms.”

“Do you intend to return? Perhaps Miss Barnard has other exciting entertainments prepared?” Lord Crowley asked in a querulous tone.

Lord Thompson stiffened and put his snifter back onto the table with a snap. The pinched skin between his brows and two spots of color staining his cheekbones betrayed anger, but he replied with a cool drawl, “I believe I’ll say good night. It’s well after midnight. And don’t forget our plans to leave early tomorrow for Scotland.”

“As you wish. Good night then, Thompson.” Lord Crowley held his brandy up in a dismissive salute to the Howard ladies. “I hope Miss Howard is not too badly injured by that girl’s clumsiness. If you need anything, just ask.”